THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


AUIT    KITTY'S 


TALES. 


MARIA  j.  MCINTOSH, 


AUTHOR  OF  "  TWO  LIVES,  OR  TO  SEEM  AND  TO  BE,"  "  CONQUEST  AND  SELF- 
CONQUEST,"   "  FRAI8E  AND  PRINCIPLE,"  ETC.,  ETC. 


A     NEW     REVISED    EDITION. 


NEW  YORK: 
D.  APPLETON  &  COMPANY,  200  BROA]'<VAY. 

PHILADELPHIA  : 

GEO.  S.  APPLETON,  148  CHESNUT  STREET. 

M  DCCC  XLVII. 


INTRODUCTION. 


IT  has  been  several  years  since  Aunt  Kitty  last  pre 
sented  herself  to  her  young  friends,  yet  she  hopes  that 
she  has  not  been  forgotten  by  them,  and  that  her  reap 
pearance  will  give  them  pleasure.  She  introduces  to 
them  in  the  present  volume  no  new  acquaintance,  but 
she  offers  to  them,  in  one  group,  all  who  formerly  in 
terested  them.  Blind  Alice  and  her  young  benefactress 
— Jessie  Graham  and  her  ardent,  generous,  but  incon 
siderate  friend,  Florence  Arnott — Grace  and  Clara — 
and  Ellen  Leslie,  will  here  be  found  together.  They 
have  been  carefully  prepared  for  this  second  presenta 
tion  to  the  public  by  Aunt  Kitty's  own  hand.  It  is 
hoped  that  her  efforts  for  their  improvement  have  not 
been  wholly  unsuccessful,  and  that  they  will  be  found 
not  altogether  unworthy  teachers  of  those  lessons  of  be 
nevolence  and  truth,  generosity,  justice  and  self-govern 
ment,  which  she  designed  to  convey  through  them. 

New  York,  Feb.  15th,  1847. 


1125591 


BLIND   ALICE. 


GOOD  MORNING,  my  young  friend !  A  merry  Christmas, 
or  happy  New  Year,  or  at  least  a  pleasant  holiday  to  you ; 
— for  holiday  I  hope  it  is,  as  it  is  on  such  festivals,  when 
there  is  no  danger  of  lessons  being  forgotten,  that  I  best 
love  to  see  around  me  a  group  of  happy  children,  all  the 
happier  for  having  Aunt  Kitty  to  direct  their  plays — to 
show  them  the  pie  asan test  walks,  or,  when  they  are  tired 
both  of  playing  and  walking,  to  sit  with  them  by  the  fire- 
side  and  tell  them  some  entertaining  story.  I  am  never 
however  entirely  without  such  young  companions.  I  have 
always  with  me  an  orphan  niece — Harriet  Armand — who 
is  about  ten  years  old.  Her  father  and  mother  died  when 
she  was  quite  an  infant,  and  she  has  ever  since  been  to  me 
as  my  own  child.  Then  I  have  another  niece — Mary 
Mackay — just  six  years  old,  the  merriest  little  girl  on 
whom  the  sun  ever  shone,  who,  as  her  father  lives  quite 
near  me,  spends  part — her  mother  says  the  largest  part — 
of  every  day  with  me.  Besides  these,  there  are  Susan 
May  and  Lucy  Ellis,  who,  living  in  a  neat,  pretty  village 
near  us,  seldom  let  a  fine  day  pass  without  seeing  Harriet 
and  me. 

I  am  the  very  intimate  and  confidential  friend  of  all 
these  little  girls.  To  me  they  intrust  all  their  secrets.  I 
know  all  the  pleasant  surprises  they  intend  for  each  other ; 
am  consulted  on  birthday  presents,  and  have  helped  them 
out  of  many  troubles,  which,  though  they  might  seem  little 
to  larger  people,  were  to  them  very  serious  affairs.  I  en 
courage  them  to  tell  me,  not  only  what  they  say  and  do, 
but  what  they  think  and  feel.  Sometimes  when  they  are 
a  little  fretful  and  discontented  because  their  friends  have 
not  done  just  as  they  wished,  we  talk  the  matter  over  to- 

1* 


BLIND    ALICE. 


gether,  and  find  that  they  have  themselves  been  unreason 
able,  and  then  the  fretfulness  is  dismissed,  and  they  try  by 
a  very  pleasant  manner  to  make  amends  for  their  hard 
thoughts  and  unjust  feelings.  If  any  one  has  really  in- 
jured  them,  or  been  unkind  to  them,  and  I  find  them  too 
angry  easily  to  forgive  it,  I  bid  them  put  on  their  bonnets, 
and  we  go  out  together  to  look  for  their  good-humor.  Then, 
as  we  see  the  gay  flowers,  and  inhale  the  sweet  perfumes, 
and  listen  to  the  merry  birds  that  hop  around  us,  twittering 
and  chirping,  my  little  friends  forget  to  be  angry ;  and 
while  I  talk  to  them  of  the  good  Father  in  heaven,  who 
made  all  these  beautiful  and  pleasant  things  for  his  chil 
dren  on  earth,  they  feel  such  love  and  thankfulness  to  him, 
that  it  seems  easy  for  his  sake  even  to  forgive  those  who 
have  done  them  wrong.  These  are  Aunt  Kitty's  lessons, 
— they  are  lessons  for  the  heart,  and  such  as  I  hope  all  my 
readers  will  be  pleased  to  learn. 

The  walk  which  these  little  girls  and  I  best  love  is  to  a 
small  house,  about  half  a  mile  from  mine.  Small  as  it  is, 
it  looks  so  pleasantly  with  its  white  walls,  (it  is  freshly 
whitewashed  every  spring,)  and  green  shutters,  its  neat 
paling  and  pretty  flower-garden,  peeping  from  the  midst  of 
green  trees,  that  any  one  might  be  contented  to  live  there. 
In  this  house  lives  a  widow,  with  one  only  child,  a  daugh 
ter,  a  year  older  than  my  niece  Harriet.  I  will  tell  you 
their  story,  which  I  think  will  make  you  feel  almost  as 
much  interested  in  them  as  we  do,  and  you  will  then  un 
derstand  why  we  like  them  so  well,  and  visit  them  so 
often. 

About  three  years  ago,  my  little  friends,  Susan  May  and 
Lucy  Ellis,  began  to  talk  a  great  deal  of  a  child  who  had 
lately  come  to  the  school  in  the  village,  which  they  attend 
ed.  They  said  her  name  was  Alice  Scott;  that  her 
teachers  thought  a  great  deal  of  her  because  she  learned 
her  lessons  so  well,  and  that  her  schoolmates  loved  her 
because  she  was  so  good-humored  and  merry.  She  had 
told  them  that  she  used  to  live  a  great  way  off,  and  that 
her  father  and  mother  had  left  her  other  home  because  it 
was  sickly,  and  had  come  here  because  they  had  heard  it 
was  a  healthy  place.  The  girls  said  Alice  looked  very 
well  herself,  but  that  Mrs.  Scott  was  pale,  and  that  Alice 
said  she  was  often  sick.  "  A  stranger  and  sick,"  thought 


BLIND    ALICE. 


I,  "then  I  must  go  to  see  her" — and  so  I  did,  very 
soon. 

I  found  her  a  pleasing,  as  well  as  a  good  woman,  though 
she  seemed  sad,  except  when  Alice  was  with  her,  and  then 
she  was  happy  and  cheerful  enough.  She  told  me  that  her 
husband  was  a  carpenter,  and  as  he  was  an  industrious  and 
honest  man,  he  had  as  much  work  given  to  him  as  he  could 
do,  and  would  have  made  money  enough  for  them  to  live 
on  very  comfortably,  had  he  not  been  so  often  ill  himself, 
and  obliged  to  pay  so  much  to  the  doctors  who  attended  his 
family  when  they  were  ill.  This  made  them  very  poor, 
but  it  was  not  being  poor,  she  said,  that  made  her  look  and 
feel  sorrowful, — it  was  the  thought  of  three  sweet  little 
babies,  all  younger  than  Alice,  who  had  died  and  been  bu 
ried  side  by  side  in  the  green  churchyard  of  the  place  from 
which  they  had  moved.  Then  she  would  check  herself, 
and  say  how  very  wrong  it  was  for  her  to  grieve  so  much, 
when  God  had  still  left  her  dear  Alice  with  her,  and  she 
knew  her  babies  were  all  happy  in  heaven.  ^ 

Mrs.  Scott  was  a  very  neat  and  careful  woman,  and 
poor  as  they  were,  she  made  her  home  quite  comfortable — 
a  great  deal  more  comfortable  than  that  of  many  people 
who  have  more  money  in  their  purses,  and  better  furniture 
in  their  houses.  Their  little  courtyard  too  was  filled  with 
pretty  flowers,  for  Alice  loved  gardening,  and  was  never 
so  happy  as  when  cutting  her  finest  carnations  and  roses 
to  dress  her  mother's  parlor,  and  make  nosegays  for  her 
young  friends.  And  yet  Alice  was  always  happy,  and  so 
you  felt  she  was  the  moment  you  looked  at  her.  She  was 
now  a  healthy,  fine-looking  child  of  nine  years  old.  Her 
very  eyes  seemed  to  sparkle  with  pleasure ;  she  never 
walked  when  she  was  alone,  but  bounded  along  like  a 
young  fawn.  Her  voice  was  very  sweet,  and  was  often 
heard,  when  she  was  with  her  young  companions,  ringing 
out  in  a  gay  laugh,  or  when  she  was  by  herself,  singing 
some  of  the  little  hymns  which  her  mother  had  taught  her. 
Yet,  gay  as  Alice  was,  her  laughter  was  hushed,  her 
bounding  step  became  cautious  and  noiseless,  and  her  bright 
eyes  were  full  of  tears  in  a  moment,  if  she  saw  either  her 
father  or  her  mother  suffering  from  any  cause.  When  they 
first  came  to  the  village,  Mrs.  Scott  was  subject  to  very 
distressing  attacks  of  pain  in  the  head,  and  it  was  touching 


8  BLIND    ALICE. 


to  see  the  playful  Alice  changed  into  a  quiet,  watchful 
nurse. 

A  year  had  passed  away,  and  Mrs.  Scott  was  healthier 
and  happier  and  dear  little  Alice  livelier  than  ever,  when 
many  people  in  our  village  and  in  the  country  around,  and 
especially  many  children,  became  ill  with  a  very  dangerous 
disease,  called  scarlet  fever.  My  little  niece  Harriet  was 
one  of  the  first  who  had  it,  and  she  was  so  ill  with  it  that 
we  feared  she  would  die.  As  soon  as  she  was  well  enough 
to  travel,  I  took  her  to  her  grandfather's,  about  twenty 
miles  off,  for  a  change  of  air.  When  we  left  home,  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Scott  and  Alice  were  still  well.  Alice,  who 
loved  Harriet  very  much,  wished  greatly  to  see  her  before 
she  went  away,  if  only  to  bid  her  good-by,  but  I  would  not 
consent  for  fear  she  should  take  the  disease.  Her  mother 
however  gave  her  permission  to  walk  out  on  the  road  by 
which  we  were  to  pass,  and  take  one  look  at  Harriet,  as 
we  drove  by.  So  when  we  were  about  half  a  mile  from 
hyme,  there  stood  Alice  by  the  road-side,  with  a  bunch  of 
flowers  in  her  hand.  As  we  passed  she  threw  the  flowers 
into  the  carriage  and  called  out  "  Good-by,  good-by ;  dear 
Harriet,  I  hope  you  will  come  back  soon,  and  well." 

I  raised  Harriet  from  the  pillow  on  which  she  was  lean 
ing  in  a  corner  of  the  carriage,  to  the  window,  that  she 
might  see  Alice  ;  and  as  I  looked  at  Alice's  red  cheeks 
and  smiling  face  and  lively  motion,  while  she  ran  along  by 
the  side  of  the  carriage  for  a  few  minutes,  I  felt  sadder 
than  ever  to  see  Harriet  so  pale  and  weak. 

Now,  my  little  readers,  if  any  of  you  have  a  grand 
father  and  grandmother,  and  have  ever  gone  to  visit  them 
after  having  been  ill,  you  will  know  how  very  glad  Har 
riet's  grandfather  and  grandmother  were  to  see  her,  and 
how  anxious  they  were  to  gratify  and  amuse  her.  Har 
riet  got  well  very  slowly,  and  was  obliged  for  some  weeks 
to  be  much  confined  to  the  house,  and  often  to  suffer  pain. 
She  was  a  good  child,  and  bore  all  this  so  patiently,  that 
when  at  the  end  of  six  weeks  we  were  about  returning 
home,  her  grandfather  gave  her  a  gold  piece,  worth  two 
dollars  and  a  half,  bidding  her  spend  it  as  she  liked.  This, 
you  know,  was  a  great  deal  of  money  for  a  little  girl,  and 
as  Harriet  had  never  had  half  so  much  at  one  time,  she 
was  quite  wild  with  delight,  thinking  at  first  that  it  would 


BLIND    ALICE. 


buy  every  thing  for  which  she  had  ever  wished.  On  cal 
culation,  however,  she  found  it  would  take  it  all  to  buy  one 
such  large  wax  doll  as  a  little  girl  who  had  lately  visited 
her  had  brought  with  her.  The  wax  doll  she  was  deter 
mined  to  have,  for  she  thought  it  by  far  the  most  beautiful 
thing  she  had  ever  seen,  and  so  her  money  was  at  once  dis 
posed  of  in  her  own  mind. 

During  the  first  part  of  her  ride  home,  Harriet  talked  of 
nothing  but  her  doll,  which  I  was  to  get  from  the  city  for 
her  as  soon  as  I  could.  She  had  not  quite  decided  what 
would  be  the  prettiest  name  for  it,  or  the  most  becoming 
color  for  its  dress,  when  we  stopped  at  a  friend's  house, 
about  eight  miles  from  our  home,  where  we  were  to  rest 
for  two  or  three  hours.  Here  there  was  a  very  clever  girl, 
a  little  older  than  Harriet,  who  brought  out  all  her  books 
and  toys  to  amuse  her.  Among  the  books  were  several  of 
those  entertaining  little  volumes,  called  the  Boys'  and  Girls' 
Library,  which  Harriet  had  never  read.  The  little  girl 
offered  to  lend  them  to  her,  and  I  allowed  her  to  take  one 
of  them,  as  she  promised  to  be  very  careful  of  it.  As  soon 
as  we  were  in  the  carriage,  Harriet  begged  me  to  read  for 
her  from  this  little  book ;  and  she  was  not  only  much  amused 
with  it,  but  I  was  able  to  point  out  to  her  some  very  useful 
lessons  it  contained. 

We  did  not  arrive  at  home  till  after  sunset,  and  as  Har 
riet  was  much  fatigued,  she  was  soon  put  to  bed.  Her 
room  opened  into  mine,  and  I  went  in  early  in  the  morn 
ing  to  see  how  she  was.  She  was  already  awake,  and  gave 
me  no  time  to  speak  to  her,  for  as  soon  as  she  saw  me,  she 
cried  out,  "  Now,  Aunt  Kitty,  I  know  what  to  do  with  my 
money." 

"  Why,  my  love,"  said  I,  "  I  thought  you  were  going  to 
buy  a  doll  with  it,  like  Eliza  Lewis's,  and  you  know  I  told 
you  that  such  a  doll  would  take  it  all." 

"  Oh  yes,  I  know  all  that,  Aunt  Kitty,  but  I've  some 
thing  a  great  deal  better  to  do  with  it  now, — I  am  going  to 
buy  books  with  it.  It  will  buy  five  volumes  of  the  Boys' 
and  Girls'  Library ;  for  see  here,  Aunt  Kitty,"  showing 
me  the  price  which  was  marked  on  a  leaf  of  the  book  she 
had  brought  home  the  day  before,  "  see  here,  this  only  cost 
fifty  cents,  and  I've  counted,  and  there  are  five  times  fifty 
cents  in  my  two  dollars  and  a  half." 


10  BLIND    ALICE. 

"  And  are  you  very  sure,"  said  I,  "  that  you  will  always 
like  the  books  better  than  the  doll,  and  that  when  you  have 
finished  reading  them  you  will  not  feel  sorry  for  having 
changed  your  mind  ?" 

"  Oh  no !  I  am  very  sure  I  shall  not,  for  you  know  I  could 
only  play  with  my  doll  now  and  then,  and  if  I  kept  it  all 
to  myself  I  should  soon  grow  tired  of  it,  and  if  I  let  the 
other  girls  play  with  it,  it  would  soon  get  spoiled  or  broken, 
and  I  should  have  nothing  left  for  my  money  ;  but  it  will 
take  me  a  long  time  to  read  through  so  many  new  books, 
and  when  they  get  spoiled  or  torn  up,  if  I  remember  what 
was  in  them,  I  shall  still  have  something  for  my  gold  piece. 
And  then  you  know,  Aunt  Kitty,  you  cannot  play  with  my 
doll,  but  you  can  read  my  books." 

I  was  always  gratified  that  my  little  girl  should  wish  me 
to  share  in  her  pleasures,  and  so  I  told  her,  adding  that  I 
thought  her  choice  of  the  books  rather  than  tne  doll  was 
very  wise.  At  the  end  of  the  book  which  Harriet  had  just 
read,  were  the  names  of  all  the  volumes  of  the  Boys'  and 
Girls' Library  that  had  yet  been  published.  Harriet  turned  to 
this  leaf,  and  began  to  show  me  which  of  them  she  intended 
to  buy.  I  told  her,  however,  that  she  had  better  not  think 
any  more  of  them  just  now,  but  that  after  breakfast  she 
might  write  down  their  names  and  give  them  to  me,  and  I 
would  send  for  them  to  a  bookseller  in  the  city.  In  the 
mean  time  I  reminded  her  that  she  had  not  yet  thanked  her 
Heavenly  Father  for  his  kind  care  of  her  while  she  was 
away,  or  asked  him  to  bless  her  through  this  day. 

I  then  left  her,  as  she  was  dressed,  and  went  to  the  break 
fast  parlor,  intending  to  put  some  questions  to  the  servant 
who  was  there  about  my  neighbors,  which  I  had  no  time  to 
ask  the  evening  before.  I  now  heard  very  sad  news  in 
deed.  The  servant  told  me  that  a  great  many  children, 
and  even  some  grown  persons,  had  died  with  scarlet  fever. 
Among  the  last  was  Mr.  Scott ;  and  Alice  had  been  near 
death, — indeed  was  still  very  ill.  This  news  made  me 
very  sad,  and  when  Harriet  heard  it  she  forgot  both  her 
gold  coin  and  the  books  it  was  to  buy,  while  she  begged  to 
go  with  me  to  see  the  sick  child.  As  I  was  no  longer 
afraid  of  her  taking  the  disease,  since  persons  usually  have 
the  scarlet  fever  but  once,  I  consented,  and  we  set  out  as 
soon  as  we  had  breakfasted. 


BLIND    ALICE.  11 


As  we  came  in  sight  of  the  house,  we  found  it  looking 
very  gloomy.  Though  the  morning  was  pleasant  and  the 
weather  warm,  the  windows  were  all  closely  shut.  The 
little  court-yard  looked  neglected;  it  was  full  of  weeds. 
Alice's  flowers  seemed  to  have  withered  on  their  stalks,  and 
wanted  trimming  and  training  sadly.  We  did  not  see  a 
creature,  or  hear  a  sound,  and  every  thing  was  so  still  and 
seemed  so  lifeless,  that  it  made  me  feel  melancholy,  and 
Harriet  appeared  a  little  afraid,  for  she  drew  close  to  my 
side  and  took  hold  of  my  hand.  When  we  came  quite 
near,  I  found  the  door  was  ajar,  and  we  went  in  at  once 
without  knocking.  The  parlor  door  stood  open,  and  I 
looked  in,  hoping  to  find  some  one  there  who  would  tell 
Mrs.  Scott  of  my  coming,  as  I  was  afraid  we  might  disturb 
Alice  by  going  straight  to  her  room.  There  was  no  one 
in  the  parlor,  and  bidding  Harriet  wait  there  for  me,  I  stepped 
very  softly  on,  to  the  room  door.  I  intended  to  knock  at 
this  door  so  lightly,  that  though  Mrs.  Scott  might  hear  me, 
it  would  not  wake  Alice  if  she  were  asleep.  When  I  came 
near  the  room,  however,  I  heard  a  sound  like  some  one 
speaking  very  low,  yet  not  whispering.  The  door  was  not 
latched,  and  every  thing  was  so  quiet  that  I  stood  still  and 
listened.  I  not  only  knew  that  it  was  Alice's  voice,  but  I 
could  even  hear  what  she  said.  Her  tone  was  very  feeble, 
as  if  from  her  own  great  weakness,  yet  sharp,  like  that  in 
which  persons  speak  who  are  frightened  or  distressed.  She 
appeared,  poor  child,  to  be  both  frightened  and  distressed. 
It  seemed  to  me  that  she  was  complaining  to  her  mother 
of  the  darkness  and  silence  around  her,  while  her  mother 
did  not  answer  her  at  all,  but  every  now  and  then  moaned 
as  if  in  great  pain. 

"  Mother,  dear  mother,"  said  Alice,  "  speak  to  me ;  and 
open  the  window,  mother — pray  open  the  window  and  give 
me  some  light.  I  am  afraid,  mother — I  am  afraid,  it  is  so 
dark  and  still — so  like  the  grave." 

For  a  moment  the  child  was  silent,  as  if  waiting  for  her 
mother's  answer  ;  but  as  no  one  spoke  to  her,  she  cried 
out  again,  in  still  sharper  tones,  "  Oh,  mother,  mother, 
where  are  you  ?  Wake  up,  mother,  dear  mother,  and 
open  the  window  and  let  me  look  once,  only  once,  on  the 
blessed  light,  and  see  your  face ;  and  then  mother,  I  will  be 
quiet  and  go  to  sleep,  and  you  may  shut  it  all  up  again." 


12  BLIND    ALICE. 


I  began  now  to  be  quite  anxious  about  Mrs.  Scott,  who  I 
thought  must  be  ill  herself,  or  she  would  certainly  answer 
Alice.  Besides,  I  could  not  stand  the  poor  child's  distress 
any  longer,  and  thinking  it  would  be  a  relief  to  her  to  hear 
anybody  speak,  I  pushed  the  door  open  and  went  in.  The 
window  was  shut,  as  poor  Alice  supposed,  but  still  there 
was  light  enough  for  me  to  see  her  very  plainly.  Her  face 
was  as  white  as  the  pillow  on  which  it  was  lying,  and  her 
long  and  thick  dark  hair  fell  around  it  in  great  confusion. 
This,  and  the  terror  she  felt,  made  her  look  very  wild. 
Mrs.  Scott  was  kneeling  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  her  hands 
were  clasped  over  her  head,  and  her  face  was  buried  in  the 
bedclothes.  Alice's  eyes  were  opened  very  widely,  and 
their  look,  together  with  what  I  had  heard,  told  me  the 
painful  truth  at  once.  Alice  was  blind — perfectly  blind, — 
an  affliction  that  sometimes  follows  scarlet  fever.  Till  this 
morning  she  had  been  either  out  of  her  senses,  or  so  low 
and  stupid  from  the  disease,  that  she  did  not  notice  any 
thing.  But  now  she  was  better  and  stronger,  and  having 
heard  the  doctor  bid  her  mother  good  morning,  when  he 
came  in  to  see  her,  she  was  first  surprised  by  the  long- con 
tinued  darkness,  and  then  frightened  by  her  mother's  si 
lence  and  distress.  And  poor  Mrs.  Scott !  she  had  long 
feared  for  her  child's  eyes,  as  Alice  would  complain  of  the 
darkness  when  the  broad  daylight  was  around  her,  and 
grieve  that  she  could  not  see  her  mother's  face  when  she 
was  weeping  over  her  pillow,  or  pressing  her  cold  hand  on 
her  hot  and  aching  head.  But  the  fever  gave  Alice  many 
strange  fancies,  and  Mrs.  Scott  had  hoped  that  this -was  one 
of  them,  till  this  morning,  when  the  doctor  told  her  that 
her  precious  child  was  blind,  quite  blind,  and  must,  he 
feared,  be  so  always. 

I  have  told  you  that  Mrs.  Scott  had  had  many  sorrows ; 
that  she  had  been  sick  and  poor,  had  lost  three  sweet  chil 
dren,  and  last  and  worst  of  all,  her  husband  ;  yet  she  had 
never  complained  j  she  had  always  said,  "  My  Father  in 
heaven  loves  me,  and  he  sees  this  sorrow  will  do  me  good, 
or  he  would  not  let  it  happen  to  me."  But  she  was  now 
weak  and  worn  with  grief  and  fatigue,  and  when  she  first 
heard  that  her  gay,  laughing  Alice  must  now  be  always  in 
darkness — that  she  could  never  again  see  the  green  earth, 
or  the  beautiful  flowers,  or  the  bright  skies  she  had  so 


BLIND    ALICE.  13 


loved  to  look  upon — that,  instead  of  running,  jumping,  and 
dancing  along,  she  must  now  be  led  by  another,  or  feel  her 
way  very  slowly  and  carefully,  she  was  so  distressed,  so 
very,  very  sad,  that  she  had  no  power  to  answer  Alice,  ex 
cept  by  low  moans. 

Much  of  what  I  have  now  told  you  I  heard  afterwards ;  but 
I  saw  enough  at  once  to  show  me  what  I  had  best  do.  Now 
I  want  my  little  readers  to  mark  what  I  say,  and  remember 
whenever  any  thing  happens  to  another  which  terrifies  or 
distresses  them,  they  are  not  to  run  away  from  it,  but  to 
try  to  do  something  to  remove  it.  It  no  doubt  makes  you 
feel  very  badly  to  see  another  suffering,  but  then  you  know 
they  feel  a  great  deal  worse  than  you  do,  and  if  you  will 
only  think  more  of  them  than  of  yourself,  you  will  general 
ly  find  something  you  can  do  to  help  them. 

As  soon  as  I  saw  how  things  were  with  Mrs.  Scott  and 
poor  Alice,  I  said  to  Mrs.  Scott  in  as  cheerful  and  quiet  a 
manner  as  possible,  "  How  d'ye  do,  Mrs.  Scott  ?  I  have 
called  to  see  how  Alice  and  you  are  to-day,  and  I  am  very 
glad  to  find  she  is  better."  Then  going  up  to  Alice,  and 
taking  her  hand,  I  said,  "  I  rejoice,  my  dear  little  girl,  that 
you  are  getting  well  again ;  but  you  have  been  very  ill, 
and  your  mother  has  watched  by  you  so  long  that  she 
seems  quite  overcome  with  sleep.  Will  you  let  me  take 
care  of  you  for  a  little  while,  that  she  may  rest  ?" 

I  spoke  very  gently,  and  the  child  seemed  pleased  to 
hear  any  voice  besides  her  own. 

"  Thank  you,  ma'am,"  said  she,  "  I  will  be  glad  to  have 
you  sit  by  me  while  my  mother  rests,  if  you  will  only  open 
the  window  and  give  me  some  light." 

Her  mother  groaned. 

"  I  will  open  the  window,  my  dear,  and  let  you  feel  the 
breeze,  and  know  that  the  light  is  around  you,  but  your 
eyes  are  weak  yet — so  weak  that  it  would  hurt  them  very 
much — perhaps  blind  them  entirely,  if  the  light  fell  on 
them,  so  you  must  let  me  tie  a  handkerchief  lightly  over 
them  before  I  open  the  window,  and  promise  me  you  will 
not  take  it  off  while  it  is  open." 

In  this  I  only  told  Alice  the  truth  ;  for  I  knew  if  there 
was  any  hope  of  her  recovering  her  sight  it  must  be  by 
keeping  her  from  using  her  eyes  for  some  time.  She 
readily  promised  what  I  asked,  and  I  then  took  my  pocket- 

2 


14  BLIND    ALICE. 


handkerchief,  which  was  fine  and  thin,  and  passing  it 
lightly  over  her  eyes,  tied  it  so  as  to  cover  them  without 
pressing  upon  them.  I  then  opened  the  window,  and  as 
she  heard  me  open  it  and  felt  the  breeze  upon  her,  Alice 
said,  "  Oh,  thank  you,  ma'am,  it  is  so  pleasant  to  know 
that  the  light  is  here,  and  I  can  almost  see  it ;  but  indeed 
you  need  not  be  afraid  of  its  hurting  me,  for  I  will  keep  my 
eyes  shut  all  the  time." 

The  poor  mother  had  by  this  time  risen  up  from  the  foot 
of  the  bed,  and  was  trying  to  be  calm  ;  but  when  she  heard 
her  little  girl  speak  in  such  cheerful  tones,  and  especially 
when  she  heard  her  say  that  she  could  almost  see,  knowing 
as  she  did  that  this  was  only  a  fancy  which  would  soon 
pass  away,  she  was  quite  overcome,  and  bursting  into  tears 
she  hurried  out  of  the  room.  I  thought  it  was  best  to  let 
her  go  by  herself,  for  I  believed  she  would  ask  God  to  give 
her  strength  to  bear  this  great  sorrow,  and  I  knew  that 
"  like  as  a  father  pitieth  his  children,  so  the  Lord  pitieth 
them  that  fear  him,"  and  that  he  could  send  into  her  heart 
such  thoughts  of/his  love  and  tender  care  for  her  and  her 
dear  child,  as  would  comfort  her  more  than  any  thing  I 
could  say  to  her. 

I  called  Harriet  in  to  see  Alice.  They  were  very  glad 
to  meet,  and  chatted  cheerfully  together,  while  I  moved 
about  the  room,  putting  things  in  as  neat  order  as  I  could. 
Harriet  told  Alice  of  every  thing  she  had  seen  since  she 
had  been  away,  which  she  thought  could  amuse  her,  not 
forgetting  the  beautiful  wax  doll,  nor  was  the  gold  piece 
left  out,  nor  what  she  intended  to  do  with  it.  Alice  quite 
approved  of  Harriet's  intention  to  buy  books  instead  of  a 
doll,  and  Harriet  promised  that  she  would  lend  them  to  her 
as  soon  as  her  eyes  were  strong  enough  to  read  ;  for  Har-  -. 
riet  never  supposed  that  Alice  was  blind,  but  thought  the 
handkerchief  was  bound  over  her  eyes  because  the  light 
pained  them,  as  she  remembered  it  had  done  hers  when 
she  was  ill. 

After  a  while,  Mrs.  Scott  came  in,  and  going  straight  up 
to  Alice,  pressed  her  lips  tenderly  over  the  places  in  the 
handkerchief  which  covered  those  dear  eyes,  and  asked 
her  gently  how  she  was  now.  Alice  answered  cheerfully, 
"  I  feel  a  great  deal  better,  and  so  glad  to  hear  your  voice 
again.  You  quite  frightened  me  this  morning,  dear  mo- 


BLIND    ALICE.  15 


ther,  when  you  would  not  speak  to  me.  Have  you 
slept  ?" 

"  Not  slept,  my  love,  but  rested,  and  I  too  feel  a  great 
deal  better." 

"I  am  very  glad;"  then  raising  her  hand  she  passed  it 
softly  over  her  mother's  face,  saying,  "  I  will  be  satisfied 
while  I  can  hear  you  and  feel  that  it  is  you,  though  they 
will  not  let  me  look  at  you." 

Mrs.  Scott's  lip  trembled,  and  the  tears  came  into  her 
eyes  again,  but  they  did  not  run  over.  She  kissed  Alice, 
and  then  turning  to  me,  thanked  me  for  coming  over,  and 
asked  how  long  I  had  been  at  home. 

"  Only  since  yesterday  evening,"  I  replied,  "  and  I  have 
so  much  yet  to  attend  to  before  I  shall  feel  quite  at  home,  that 
now,  as  you  are  able  to  come  back  to  Alice,  I  must,  I 
think,  leave  her  till  to-morrow ;  but  you  are  too  much 
fatigued  to  be  left  alone  with  her.  I  know  a  very  goofl 
girl,  who  will  not»only  help  you  to  do  your  work,  but  who 
is  so  kind  that  she  will  take  care  of  Alice,  and  so  cheerful 
and  pleasant,  that  she  will  amuse  her  when  you  cannot  be 
with  her.  I  will  stop  at  her  house  on  my  way  home,  and 
send  her  to  you." 

The  poor  woman  did  not  speak  directly,  but  after  a  little 
while  she  said,  "  I  think,  ma'am,  I  ought  not  to  let  the  girl 
you  speak  of  come,  for  I  am  not  so  well  able  to  pay  for 
help  as  I  once  was." 

"  I  will  settle  all  that  with  her,"  said  I,  "  and  I  will  find 
some  way  to  make  your  little  girl  here  pay  me  for  it,  when 
she  gets  well.  And  now,  Alice,  you  will  I  know  remem 
ber  your  promise  to  me,  and  not  even  ask  your  mother  to 
take  the  handkerchief  off  your  eyes  till  she  darkens  the 
6  room  this  evening.  Perhaps,  my  dear  child,  you  may 
have  to  be  in  the  dark  for  many  days,  but  we  will  do  every 
thing  we  can  to  help  you  to  bear  it  patiently.  Har 
riet  will  spend  part  of  every  day  with  you,  and  she 
can  read  for  you  till  you  are  able  to  read  for  yourself 
again." 

"  Oh,  thank  you,  ma'am,  I  do  not  think  I  shall  mind  the 
darkness  at  all,  now,  if  my  mother  stays  with  me,  and  you 
will  let  Harriet  come  very  often  to  see  me." 

"  Well,  my  child,  we  will  both  come  to-morrow,  and  now 
we  will  bid  you  good-by,  and  I  think  you  had  better  be  still 


16  BLIND  ALICE. 


and  try  to  sleep,  for  while  you  are  so  weak,  it  is  not  right 
for  you  to  talk  long  without  resting." 

Harriet  and  I  then  left  the  room,  followed  by  Mrs.  Scott, 
who  told  Alice  she  was  going  to  the  door  with  us,  and  would 
soon  be  back.  She  opened  the  door  for  us,  and  when  we 
had  gone  out,  she  stepped  out  too,  and  taking  my  hand, 
thanked  me  again  and  again  for  the  comfort  I  had  given 
her  poor  blind  girl,  as  she  called  Alice,  when  she  was  too 
much  stunned,  she  said,  to  know  what  to  do.  I  told  her  I 
thought  it  was  very  important  that  Alice  should  not  know 
her  misfortune  till  she  was  stronger,  for  fear  she  should 
grieve  so  much  as  to  make  her  ill  again ;  and  that  now,  till 
the  doctor  should  think  it  right  to  tell  her  of  it,  I  hoped 
Alice  would  suppose  that  the  bandage,  or  the  darkness  of 
the  room,  kept  her  from  seeing.  "But,"  I  asked  Mrs. 
Scott,  "  does  not  the  doctor  think  something  may  be  done 
to  restore  her  sight?" 

"  Nothing  that  I  can  do,  ma'am,"  said*  the  poor  woman, 
beginning  to  weep,  "  and  that's  the  worst  part,  and  the 
hardest  to  bear ;— -though  I  try  to  remember  that  my  Fa 
ther  in  heaven  sends  that  too.  The  doctor  says  that  in  the 
city  there  are  eye-doctors, — he  calls  them  oculists, — who 
know  a  great  deal  which  he  does  not,  and  that  they  might 
do  her  some  good.  But,  ah,  ma'am !  how  am  I  to  go  to 
the  city  with  her,  even  if  they  would  attend  her  for  nothing 
after  we  got  there,  when  I  owe  more  money  than  I  fear  I 
can  pay  for  a  long  while,  without  working  very  hard,  and 
living  myself,  and  what's  worse,  making  my  poor  child  live, 
on  bread  and  water !" 

I  tried  to  say  something  that  might  comfort  this  poor  wo 
man,  but  I  felt  it  was  a  very  sad  case,  and  could  not  s 
much.  She  answered  to  what  I  did  say,  "  True,  ma'a 
true,  God  will  strengthen  me  to  bear  what  only  His  own 
hand  could  bring  upon  me.  May  he  forgive  my  complain 
ing  heart.  He  has  given  me  back  my  child  from  the  very 
gate  of  the  grave,  and  now  He  has  sent  you  to  me  to  be  a 
kind  friend  in  my  time  of  great  trouble,  and  I  ought  to  feel, 
and  I  will  try  to  feel,  very  thankful.  But,  good-by,  ma'am, 
I  hope  to  see  you  again  to-morrow.  I  must  not  stay  longer 
now,  for  fear  my  poor  child  should  want  me."  So  saying, 
she  shook  hands  with  Harriet  and  me,  and  went  into  the 
house. 


BLIND  ALICE.  17 


As  soon  as  she  was  gone,  Harriet,  who  had  stood  while 
we  were  talking,  staring  with  a  half-frightened  look,  first 
at  Mrs.  Scott,  and  then  at  me,  said  in  a  low  tone,  "  Aunt 
Kitty,  what  is  the  matter  with  Alice  ?  What  does  Mrs. 
Scott  mean  by  calling  her  a  blind  girl  ?  Surely,  Alice 
will  see  again  soon — will  she  not,  Aunt  Kitty  ?" 

'"  I  fear  not,  my  love,  I  fear  not — certainly  not,  unless 
Mrs.  Scott  can  take  her  where  she  can  have  more  done 
for  her  than  anybody  here  can  do,  and  I  know  not  how 
she  will  get  money  enough  to  do  that." 

"  Money  enough — vjhy,  Aunt  Kitty,  is  Mrs.  Scott  so  very 
poor  ?" 

"  You  heard  her  say  that  she  owed  money  which  she 
could  only  hope  to  pay  by  working  very  hard,  and  living 
very  poorly.  She  has  no  husband  to  work  for  her  now, 
Harriet,  and  Mr.  Scott's  and  Alice's  illness  must  have  made 
her  spend  a  great  deal." 

"  Oh,  Aunt  Kitty !  I  am  very  sorry  for  Alice,  and  if  I 
thought  it  would  help  her,  I  would — " 

What  Harriet  would  have  said  was  here  interrupted  by 
the  coming  up  of  the  very  girl  whom  I  had  wished  to  get 
to  help  Mrs.  Scott  take  care  of  Alice.  I  told  her  of  Alice's 
blindness,  how  anxious  we  were  that  she  should  not  hear 
of  it  just  now,  and  that  we  wished  to  keep  her  amused,  as 
well  as  to  have  her  made  comfortable.  I  added,  that  I 
would  pay  her  for  what  she  did,  and  then  asked  how  soon 
she  could  go. 

"Right  away,  right  away,  ma'am.  Poor  things,  and 
such  kind  and  clever  people  as  them  are  too.  I  only  wish, 
ma'am,  I  could  go  to  'em  without  pay ;  I  am  sure  if  it 
wasn't  for  them  as  depends  on  me,  I'd  do  it  with  all  my 
heart." 

I  told  her  this  was  not  necessary,  though  it  was  very 
kind,  and  again  bidding  her  take  good  care  of  Alice,  I  sent 
her  to  them  while  I  went  home. 

Harriet  was  very  silent  during  the  rest  of  our  walk.  I 
did  not  ask  any  questions  about  what  she  had  been  going 
to  tell  me  she  would  do  for  Alice,  if  she  thought  it  would 
help  her ;  because,  whatever  she  did,  I  wished  should  be 
done  from  her  own  free  will.  When  we  were  again  at 
home,  she  did  not  go  to  play  or  to  read,  as  usual,  but  sat 
down  in  one  place,  as  if  she  were  tired,  and  seemed  very 

2* 


18  BLIND  ALICE. 


thoughtful ;  yet  she  never  named  Alice,  which  surprised 
me  a  little,  as  she  was  accustomed  to  talk  to  me  of  what 
ever  distressed  her.  In  the  afternoon  she  tried  to  amuse 
herself,  bringing  out  first  a  book  and  then  a  toy  from  her 
room  into  the  parlor  where  I  sat,  until  she  had  gathered 
together  all  she  had ;  but  there  seemed  still  to  be  some 
thing  wanting,  for  in  a  short  time  the  books  were  laid 
aside,  the  toys  pushed  away,  and  Harriet,  apparently  for 
getting  them,  again  sat  as  she  had  done  in  the  morning, 
quiet  and  thoughtful.  After  it  began  to  grow  dark,  she 
carried  her  books  and  toys  back  to-  her  room,  and  came 
and  seated  herself  at  my  feet.  As  the  weather  was  warm, 
we  had  no  lights  in  the  parlor,  and  the  hall  light  just  let 
us  see  where  objects  stood,  but  was  not  bright  enough  to 
show  us  very  plainly  what  they  were. 

"  Aunt  Kitty,"  said  Harriet,  "  can  Alice  see  no  more 
plainly  than  we  do  now,  when  there  is  no  light  in  the 
room  ?" 

"  Not  so  plainly,  my  love,  for  we  can  see  a  little.  She 
can  see  no  more  than  you  can  of  a  dark  night,  when  you 
wake  up  at  midnight,  with  your  windows  shut  and  your 
curtains  down." 

She  was  silent  a  few  minutes,  and  then  said,  "  It  must 
be  a  dreadful  thing,  Aunt  Kitty,  to  be  blind." 

"  Yes,  my  dear  Harriet,"  said  I,  "  it  must  be  a  dreadful 
thing — and  I  fear  neither  you  nor  I  have  been  thankful 
enough  to  God  for  saving  you  from  such  an  affliction, 
when  you  got  well  of  the  same  disease  which  has  made 
Alice  blind.  When  you  pray  for  your  little  friend  to 
night,  my  love,  do  not  forget  how  much  reason  you  have 
to  be  thankful  that  you  can  see." 

Harriet  did  not  say  any  thing  more,  but  she  laid  her 
head  on  my  lap,  and  I  heard  her  sob  once  or  twice. 

It  was  now  getting  late,  and  kissing  her,  I  told  her  it 
was  time  for  her  to  go  to  bed,  and  that  I  would  only  sit  up 
long  enough  after  her  to  write  a  letter  to  a  bookseller  to 
whom  I  intended  sending  for  the  books.  Harriet  was  now 
standing  by  me  in  the  hall,  where  I  had  gone  to  light  her 
candle,  and  when  I  mentioned  the  books,  she  looked  as  if 
she  was  about  to  speak,  but  stopped  herself.  After  I  had 
ended,  she  said,  "  Aunt  Kitty," — then  stopped  again. 

"  What,  my  love  ?"  said  I. 


BLIND    ALICE.  19 


"  Nothing,  ma'am — good-night,"  and  taking  her  candle 
she  went  to  her  room. 

I  wrote  my  letter  and  then  went  to  mine,  into  which, 
you  must  remember,  I  have  told  you  hers  opened.  I  turned 
my  latch  very  softly,  for  fear  of  waking  Harriet  if  she 
was  asleep  ;  but  as  soon  as  I  entered,  she  called  out,  "  I'm 
not  asleep,  Aunt  Kitty ;  please  come  here,  and  let  me  speak 
to  3'ou." 

I  went  to  her  directly,  asking  what  was  the  matter. 

"  I  have  been  waiting  and  listening  a  long  time  for  you, 
Aunt  Kitty,  for  there  is  something  I  wanted  to  say  to  you, 
and  I  could  not  go  to  sleep  till  I  had  said  it.  I  hope  you  did 
not  write  the  letter  about  the  books,  for  I  do  not  want  them 
now,  Aunt  Kitty.  I  want  you,  if  you  please,  to  give  the 
money  to  poor  Mrs.  Scott,  that  it  may  help  her  to  go  to  the 
city  and  get  something  done  for  Alice's  eyes." 

"  My  dear  Harriet,  this  money  is  yours,  and  you  have  a 
right  to  do  what  you  will  with  it,  but  I  hope  you  have 
thought  well  of  what  you  are  going  to  do  now.  It  will 
not  do  afterwards  to  be  sorry  you  did  not  buy  the  books 
you  want,  which  you  will  not  be  likely  to  get  in  any  other 
way." 

"  Oh  no,  Aunt  Kitty  !  I  do  not  want  them  now  ;  at  least, 
I  do  not  want  them  half  so  much  as  I  want  Alice  to  see 
again,  and  I  have  thought  very  much  about  it, — indeed  I 
have. 

"  When  I  first  heard  Mrs.  Scott  and  you  talking  this 
morning,  and  you  said  Alice  was  blind,  and  Mrs.  Scott  was 
too  poor  to  take  her  to  the  good  doctors,  who  might  do 
something  for  her,  I  remembered  my  gold  piece,  and 
thought  I  would  give  it  to  her  to  help  her,  and  I  was  just 
going  to  tell  you  so  when  Betty  Maclaurin  came  up,  and 
you  stopped  to  speak  to  her  about  going  to  Mrs.  Scott's, 
and  then  I  could  not,  you  know." 

"  Well,  but  you  could  have  told  me  after  she  had  gone, 
if  you  still  wished  it." 

"  Yes,  I  know  I  could,  but  while  you  were  talking  to 
her,  I  remembered  my  books,  and  I  called  all  their  names 
over,  and  thought  how  Alice  would  like  to  hear  me  read 
them,  till  I  wanted  them  more  than  ever  ;  and  then  I  thought 
it  would  be  a  great  deal  kinder  to  get  them  and  read  some 
of  them  ejery  day  to  Alice,  than  to  give  Mrs.  Scott  my 


2u  BLIND    ALICE. 


money,  which,  though  I  think  it  so  much,  would  hardly 
help  her  at  all.  Besides,  Aunt  Kitty,  I  knew  you  and  my 
uncle  and  my  grandpapa  would  give  Mrs.  Scott  a  great 
deal  more  money  than  my  two  dollars  and  a  half,  if  it 
would  help  Alice." 

"  And  what  made  my  little  girl  change  her  mind — what 
made  her  think  this  would  not  be  best  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know,  Aunt  Kitty ;  I  only  know  I  could  not 
think  of  any  thing  but  Alice  all  day,  though  I  tried  every 
way  to  forget  her,  and  every  thing  I  looked  at  made  me 
feel  bad,  because  Alice  could  not  see  it  too." 

"  Did  my  little  Harriet  never  think,  during  all  this  time, 
of  that  verse  she  learned  from  her  Bible  the  other  day, 
which  I  told  her  would  always  teach  her  what  she  ought 
to  do  for  others,  «  As  ye  would  that  men  should  do  to  you, 
do  ye  also  to  them  likewise  ?' ' 

"  Oh  yes !  Aunt  Kitty,  I  thought  of  that  this  evening, 
when  you  were  telling  me  what  a  dreadful  thing  it  is  to 
be  blind,  and  that  I  might  have  been  blind,  as  well  as 
Alice,  and  I  said  to  myself,  if  I  had  been  blind,  I  would 
have  thought  it  very  unkind  in  Alice  not  to  do  all  she 
could  to  help  me  to  see  again,  and  then  I  felt  as  if  I  was 
so  cruel  that  I  could  not  help  crying  ;  and  when  you  said 
you  were  going  to  write  for  the  books,  I  wanted  to  beg  you 
not  to  do  it,  but  somehow  I  could  not — so  I  only  bid  you 
good-night,  and  came  to  bed." 

"  And  what  happened  then  to  make  you  feel  differently  ? 
Tell  me  all  you  felt  and  thought,  dear  child,  and  then  I 
shall  know  whether  you  are  doing  right  now." 

"  Why  you  see,  Aunt  Kitty,  after  I  was  undressed  I 
knelt  down  to  say  my  prayers,  and  after  I  had  thanked 
God  as  you  told  me  to  do,  for  my  own  eyesight,  I  tried  to 
pray  that  He  would^  give  Alice  back  hers ;  but,  though  I 
said  the  words  over  and  over  again,  I  could  not  feel  as  if  I 
was  praying  them,  for  I  kept  thinking,  Aunt  Kitty,  how 
deceitful  God  would  think  me,  to  pretend  to  care  so  much 
for  Alice's  eyes,  when  I  really  cared  so  much  more  about 
my  books ;  and  then  I  remembered  the  little  prayer  you 
taught  me  once,  '  Oh  God !  I  pray  thee  show  me  what  is 
right  to  do,  and  make  me  love  to  do  it.'  As  soon  as  I 
said  '  what  is  right  to  do,'  it  came  into  my  head  that  it 
was  right  for  me  to  do  all  I  could  for  Alice,  if  everybody 


BLIND    ALICE.  21 


else  did  ever  so  much  for  her ;  and  now,  Aunt  Kitty,  I 
wish  I  had  a  great  deal  more  money,  that  I  might  give  it 
all  to  her — and  though  I  am  just  as  sorry  for  Alice,  I  do 
not  feel  half  so  bad  about  her ;  for  if  we  are  willing  to 
do  all  we  can  for  her,  God,  who  loves  her  a  great  deal 
more  than  any  of  us,  will  certainly  give  her  back  her  eye 
sight.  Don't  you  think  he  will,  Aunt  Kitty  ?" 

"  God  does  love  her  a  great  deal  more  than  we  do,  my 
dear ;  but  He  is  a  great  deal  wiser  than  we  are,  and  He 
may  see  that  it  is  best  for  Alice  that  she  should  continue 
blind,  though  it  seems  so  terrible  to  us.  You  must  remem 
ber,  therefore,  that  Alice  may  go  to  the  city  and  come 
back  no  better.  Should  you  not  feel  sorry  then  that  you 
had  given  up  your  books  without  doing  her  any  good  ?" 

Harriet  thought  for  a  moment,  and  then  said,  "  No,  Aunt 
Kitty,  for  I  should  have  done  what  was  right,  and  I  could 
never  feel  sorry  for  that,  you  know." 

I  kissed  the  sweet  child,  and  said,  "  Dear  Harriet,  always 
remember  what  you  now  say.  Do  right,  my  child,  and 
you  will  be  happy,  let  what  will  happen, — far  happier  than 
if  by  doing  wrong  you  could  get  every  thing  in  the  world 
you  wished  for.  And  now  I  may  tell  you  that  you  could 
have  made  no  use  of  your  money  which  I  would  have 
thought  half  so  good,  or  which  would  have  given  me  half 
so  much  pleasure." 

"  I  am  very  glad,  Aunt  Kitty ;  I  was  afraid  at  first  that 
you  did  not  like  me  to  give  it  away." 

"Why,  Harriet  ?     What  made  you  feel  afraid  of  this  ?" 

"  Because  you  did  not  talk  at  first  as  you  do  when  you 
are  very  much  pleased." 

"  I  had  a  reason,  my  dear,  for  not  seeming  very  much 
pleased  until  I  had  heard  why  you  wished  to  give  your 
money  to  Alice, — a  very  good  reason,  I  think,  which  it 
would  take  me  too  long  to  explain  to  you  to-night,  for  it  is 
very  late  already  for  such  a  little  girl  to  be  sitting  up.  Go 
to  bed  now,  and  to-morrow  morning  I  will  tell  you  all  about 
it."  Harriet  went  to  bed,  and  soon  forgot  her  good  inten 
tions  and  my  good  reasons  in  a  sound  sleep. 

I  dare  say  my  little  readers  thought  just  as  Harriet  did, 
that  I  did  not  seem  at  first  as  much  pleased  as  I  ought  to 
have  been  with  her  kind  and  generous  feelings  to  her 
friend  ;  but  if  they  will  read  the  conversation  I  had  with 


22  BLIND    ALICE. 


her  the  next  morning,  I  think  they  will  understand  why 
this  was. 

I  did  not  wake  Harriet  as  early  as  usual  the  next  morn- 
ing,  because  she  had  been  up  so  late  at  night.  As  soon, 
however,  as  she  was  well  awake,  she  remembered  our 
conversation,  and  said,  "  Now,  Aunt  Kitty,  you  will  tell 
me  what  you  promised  ?" 

"  Not  now,  my  love,  for  it  is  late,  and  breakfast  will 
soon  be  ready ;  but  after  breakfast  we  will  go  to  Mrs. 
Scott's,  and  on  our  way  there,  I  will  answer  all  your  ques 
tions." 

As  soon  as  we  had  set  out  for  Mrs.  Scott's,  Harriet  again 
reminded  me  of  my  promise. 

"  Well,  my  love,"  said  I,  "you  wish  to  know  why  I  did 
not  tell  you  at  once  how  much  pleased  I  was  with  your  in 
tention  to  help  Alice.  It  was  because  I  wanted  first  to 
hear  your  reasons  for  doing  it,  and  so  to  know  whether 
you  were  acting  from  an  impulse  or  a  principle." 

Now  my  little  readers  are  doubtless  very  much  puzzled 
by  this  "  acting  from  an  impulse  or  a  principle,"  and  so  was 
Harriet,  too.  She  looked  up  jn  my  face  with  a  very 
thoughtful  air  for  a  minute,  then  shook  her  head,  and  said, 
"Aunt  Kitty,  I  do  not  understand  you  at  all,  I  do  not  even 
know  what  impulse  means,  or  principle  either." 

"  I  did  not  expect  you  would,  my  love  ;  but  I  hope  to  be 
able  to  explain  them  to  you,  if  you  will  listen  very  care 
fully  to  what  I  am  going  to  say.  Persons  are  said  to  act 
from  impulse,  when  they  are  led  to  do  a  thing  from  feel 
ing,  without  pausing  to  ask  whether  the  feeling  be  right  or 
wrong.  Thus,  if  you  were  eating  a  piece  of  cake,  and  a 
very  poor  child  should  come  up  to  you,  and  saying  she 
was  hungry,  ask  you  for  it,  and  you  should  give  it  to  her 
without  a  moment's  thought,  from  a  feeling  of  pity  for  her, 
this  would  be  acting  from  impulse." 

"  And  would  it  not  be  right,  Aunt  Kitty,  to  give  the  poor 
little  child  my  cake  ?" 

"  Very  right,  my  love,  and  if  you  had  asked  yourself 
what  ic  was  right  to  do,  you  would  have  given  it,  perhaps, 
just  as  quickly,  for  you  know  your  Bible  tells  you,  '  Be 
pitiful' — '  Feed  the  hungry.'  Your  feeling  of  pity,  then, 
was  a  right  feeling,  and  your  readiness  to  give  your  cake 
was  what  we  call  a  good  impulse  ;  but  you  know  there  are 


BLIND    ALICE.  23 


some  very  wrong  feelings,  such  as  anger,  which  sometimes 
makes  little  girls  give  hard  words,  and  even  hard  blows, 
to  their  brothers  and  sisters,  or  playmates,  who  will  not  do 
as  they  wish.  This  again  is  acting  from  impulse,  though 
it  is  a  bad  impulse.  So  you  see,  my  dear  Harriet,  as  the 
best-natured  people  in  the  world  sometimes  have  very 
wrong  feelings,  if  they  are  accustomed  to  do  just  what  their 
feelings  tell  them  to  do,  that  is,  to  act  from  impulse,  you 
can  never  be  sure  whether  their  actions  will  be  good  or 
bad." 

"But,  Aunt  Kitty,  when  I  find  out  my  feeling  is  a  right 
feeling,  I  may  do  just  what  it  tells  me  to  do  ?" 

"  No,  my  love  ;  even  when  a  feeling  is  a  right  feeling, 
it  will  not  be  well  to  do  always  just  what  it  tells  you,  for  a 
right  feeling  may  lead  to  a  very  wrong  action.  You  think 
this  strange,  but  I  will  tell  you  a  story  which  will  show 
you  that  it  sometimes  is  so.  A  little  girl  was  once  sent 
by  a  lady  who  was  making  a  visit  to  her  mother,  to  a  thread 
and  needle  store,  to  buy  a  spool  of  cotton  for  her.  The 
lady  had  given  her  a  shilling,  which  she  held  carefully 
between  her  finger  and  thumb,  for  fear  of  losing  it.  An 
other  girl  who  was  passing  saw  the  shilling,  and  wanted  it 
very  much.  Being  a  very  wicked  child,  she  began  to  cry, 
or  at  least,  to  seem  to  cry,  saying  that  she  had  just  lost  the 
only  shilling  her  mother  had,  as  she  was  going  to  the  ba 
ker's  to  buy  a  loaf  of  bread  with  it ;  that  they  had  nothing 
to  eat  at  home,  and  she  was  afraid  her  mother  would  beat 
her  when  she  went  back  and  told  her  what  she  had  done. 
The  little  girl  who  had  the  shilling  felt  very  sorry  for  her, 
and  offered  to  help  her  look  for  the  money.  They  did 
look  for  it  a  long  time,  the  wicked  child  crying  piteously 
all  the  while,  and  saying  that  her  mother  would  kill  her, 
till  the  other  little  girl  felt  so  grieved,  that  she  gave  her 
the  shilling  which  she  had  in  her  hand.  Now,  as  she  be 
lieved  the  wicked  child's  story,  the  sorrow  she  felt  for  her 
was  very  right,  and  yet  you  see  it  led  her  to  do  a  very 
wrong  action — to  give  away  what  did  not  belong  to  her. 
Nor  did  the  wrong-doing  stop  here  ;  when  she  went  home, 
her  mamma,  to  whom  she  intended  to  tell  all  about  it,  was 
gone  out,  and  the  lady  asking  for  her  cotton,  she  was  afraid 
to  tell  her  what  she  had  done  with  the  money,,  and  so  she 
committed  a  greater  fault  by  saying  what  was  not  true, — 


24  BLIND    ALICE. 


she  told  her  she  had  lost  the  shilling.  The  lady  thought 
her  very  careless,  and  thus  she  got  blame  which  she  did 
not  deserve,  and  as  she  was  really  a  good  little  girl  in  gen 
eral,  she  was  quite  miserable  for  several  days  about  the 
story  she  had  told,  until  she  summoned  courage  to  let  her 
mamma  know  the  whole  truth.  Here  you  see,  Harriet,  a 
very  kind  feeling  made  this  little  girl  act  very  badly  ;  but 
if  she  had  been  accustomed,  when  a  feeling  inclined  her  to 
do  any  thing,  to  ask  herself  if  it  would  be  right,  before 
she  did  it,  that  is,  to  act  from  principle  instead  of  impulse, 
she  would  have  said  to  the  wicked  child,  '  I  am  very  sorry 
for  you,  and  if  this  shilling  was  mine,  I  would  give  it 
to  you,  but  it  is  not.  You  must  wait  till  I  have  bought  the 
spool  of  cotton  I  was  sent  for,  and  then,  if  you  will  go  home 
with  me,  I  will  ask  my  mamma  for  another  shilling  for 
you.' " 

"  Now,  Aunt  Kitty,  I  think  I  understand  you  ;  if  I  had 
given  my  money  to  Alice  yesterday  morning,  when  I  first 
heard  she  was  blind,  and  before  I  had  thought  what  was 
right  for  me  to  do,  I  would  have  acted  from  impulse,  would 
I  not  ?" 

"  Yes,  my  love,  and  though  it  would  have  been  a  good 
impulse,  and  you  would  even  then  have  had  more  pleasure 
than  in  spending  it  in  any  thing  that  was  only  for  yourself, 
yet  I  am  afraid  your  pleasure  would  not  have  lasted  long. 
You  would  soon  have  begun  to  think  of  your  books,  and  if 
other  people  offered  to  help  Alice,  you  would  have  thought 
you  had  been  very  foolish  to  give  them  up." 

"But  I  shall  not  think  so  now,  Aunt  Kitty — I  shall  al 
ways  think  it  was  right  to  give  them  up  to  do  Alice  good." 

"  That  is  true,  Harriet,  and  the  happiness  you  feel  in 
doing  what  is  right,  you  will  always  feel ;  for  that  which 
makes  you  happy  will  not  change ;  what  is  right  to-day, 
will  be  right  to-morrow,  and  the  next  day,  and  the  next." 

We  walked  on  a  little  way  in  silence,  and  then  Harriet 
said,  looking  up  at  me  with  a  smiling,  pleasant  face,  "  Then, 
Aunt  Kitty,  after  all,  it  was  not  very  wrong  for  me  not  to 
give  my  money  to  Alice  at  once  ?" 

"  It  was  not  wrong  at  all,  my  dear,  for  you  not  to  give 
it  till  you  had  asked  yourself  whether  it  was  right  to  do  so ; 
but  you  might  have  asked  this  question  as  soon  as  you  felt 
sorry  for  Alice,  and  then  you  would  have  done  in  the 


BLIND    ALICE.  25 


morning  what  you  waited  till  night  to  do,  and  have  felt  just 
as  happy  on  account  of  doing  it.  I  would  be  very  sorry  to 
have  my  little  girl  suppose  that  when  she  sees  anybody  in 
distress,  she  must  wait  a  great  while  to  think  the  matter 
over,  before  she  does  any  thing  for  them.  There  is  only 
one  question  you  need  ask,  before  you  try  to  help  them, 
and  that  is — What  is  it  right  for  me  to  do  ?  This,  you 
can  ask  immediately,  and  you  need  not  wait  long  for  an 
answer — conscience  will  tell  you  very  honestly  and  very 
quickly  what  is  right." 

Now  perhaps  some  of  my  little  readers  may  not  know 
as  well  as  Harriet  did,  what  I  mean  by  conscience,  so  I 
will  tell  them.  I  mean  something  within  you,  which  makes 
you  know  whether  you  have  been  good  or  bad  children, 
before  anybody  else  says  any  thing  about  it. 

"  But,  Aunt  Kitty,"  said  Harriet,  "  how  is  my  conscience 
always  to  know  what  is  right  or  wrong  ?" 

"  There  are  many  ways,  Harriet,  in  which  conscience 
may  learn  something  about  it ;  but  the  easiest  and  simplest 
way  of  all  is  by  reading  your  Bible,  and  trying  to  under- 
stand  and  remember  what  that  tells  you  to  do  or  not  to  do. 
When  conscience  is  thus  taught,  if  it  tell  you  that  what  a 
feeling  would  lead  you  to  do,  is  right,  you  must  do  it  at 
once,  without  thinking  any  farther  about  it ;  and  if  con 
science  tell  you  a  feeling  is  wrong,  you  must  try  to  get  rid 
of  it  at  once." 

"  Get  rid  of  it,  Aunt  Kitty  !"  said  Harriet,  with  a  won 
dering  look,  "how  can  I  get  rid  of  a  feeling?" 

"  The  best  way,  my  dear  Harriet,  is  by  refusing  to  do 
any  thing  it  would  have  you.  Thus,  if  you  are  angry 
with  any  one,  and  the  feeling  of  anger  would  have  you  say 
some  of  those  hard  words  to  them  which  I  spoke  of  just 
now,  refuse  to  say  them,  or  if  possible  even  to  think  them 
over  in  your  own  mind,  and  you  will  very  soon  get  rid  of 
your  anger." 

Harriet  did  not  say  any  thing  for  some  minutes.  When 
she  next  spoke,  it  was  in  a  very  low  and  somewhat  sad 
tone. 

"  Aunt  Kitty,  I  am  afraid  I  cannot  do  all  you  tell  me, 
for  I  have  tried  sometimes,  when  I  have  been  angry,  not  to 
say  any  thing,  and  I  could  not  help  talking." 

"  I  know,  my  dear,  that  it  is  often  very  difficult,  but  the 
3 


26  BLIND    ALICE. 


harder  it  is,  the  happier  will  you  feel  if  you  can  do  it. 
But,  my  dear  Harriet,  you  planted  some  seeds  in  your  gar- 
den  this  morning,  and  watered  them,  yet  you  know  they 
could  not  grow  any  more  than  a  pebble  could,  if  God  did 
not  put  life  into  them,  and  make  them  take  in  the  water 
and  the  warmth  which  will  nourish  them  and  cause  them 
to  swell  out  and  put  forth  ;  and  so,  after  all  the  instructions 
which  I  can  give  you,  or  even  which  you  can  get  from 
your  Bible,  it  is  only  God  who  can  put  into  your  heart  such 
a  strong  desire  to  do  right,  that  you  will  receive  these  instruc 
tions,  as  the  little  seeds  receive  the  water  and  warmth,  and 
put  forth  right  feelings  and  right  actions,  as  they  put  forth 
their  green  leaves.  This  you  must  ask  Him  to  do.  But 
here  we  are  in  sight  of  Mrs.  Scott's,  slowly  as  we  have 
walked,  and  you  will  not  be  sorry,  I  suppose,  to  have  such 
a  very  grave  talk  stopped." 

"  I  am  not  glad  to  have  you  stop  talking,  Aunt  Kitty,  but 
I  will  be  very  glad  to  see  Alice,  for  I  have  brought  a  book 
to  read  for  her,  that  I  know  she  wants  to  hear  very  much." 

I  was  pleased  to  see,  as  I  approached,  that  the  house 
looked  more  cheerful.  The  parlor  windows  were  open, 
and  as  we  went  up  the  steps  and  passed  through  the  little 
porch,  I  saw  that  they  had  been  nicely  swept.  The  door 
was  latched,  and  on  my  knocking  at  it  Mrs.  Scott  herself 
opened  it  for  us.  She  seemed  very  glad  to  see  us,  and 
said  Alice  felt  stronger  and  better,  and  that  she  had  been 
looking,  or  rather  listening  for  us  all  the  morning.  We 
went  directly  to  her  room.  There  too  every  thing  seemed 
in  order,  and  looked  pleasantly.  The  sash  was  raised,  and 
the  soft  warm  breeze  brought  to  us  the  sweet  smell  of  the 
clover,  a  field  of  which  was  in  bloom  quite  near  the  house. 
Alice  was  sitting  in  bed,  propped  up  with  pillows,  and 
though  still  very  pale,  looked  much  more  like  herself  than 
she  had  done  the  day  before.  The  handkerchief  was  over 
her  eyes,  as  I  had  placed  it,  and  I  told  her  I  was  much 
pleased  to  see  she  had  not  forgotten  her  promise.  She 
smiled  and  answered  me  cheerfully,  "  Indeed,  ma'am,  I 
have  been  very  careful  to  keep  it.  I  would  not  ask  to 
take  off  the  handkerchief  till  my  mother  shut  the  window 
last  night,  and  told  me  it  was  quite  dark,  and  I  tied  it  on 
myself  as  soon  as  I  woke  this  morning,  though  that  was 
long  before  daylight.  But  now,"  she  added,  speaking  very 


BLIND    ALICE.  2? 


fast,  as  if  she  was  afraid  that  something  would  call  off  my 
attention  before  I  had  heard  all  she  wished  to  say,  "  may 
not  I  have  it  off  just  for  one  single  minute  ?  I  do  want  to 
see  the  clover,  for  I  know  it  is  in  bloom  by  the  smell." 

"  And  I  hope,  my  dear  little  girl,  you  will  be  satisfied 
to  know  it  only  by  the  smell  to-day,  for  it  would  be  very 
imprudent  to  expose  your  eyes  to  the  light  so  soon.  Har 
riet  has  come  to  spend  the  morning  with  you,  and  you  must 
see  with  her  eyes.  She  will  read  for  yon,  and  when  you 
grow  weary  of  listening,  she  will  tell  you  how  any  thing 
looks  which  you  want  very  much  to  see." 

"  Oh  !  I  shall  like  that,  for  then,  Harriet,  I  can  see  all 
that  you  saw  when  you  were  away,  your  grandfather's 
house,  and  all  the  places  that  you  passed  on  the  road,  for 
you  know  you  can  tell  me  how  they  looked,  and  then  I 
shall  see  them  through  your  eyes.  Will  not  that  be  pleas 
ant  !" 

Having  thus  satisfied  Alice,  I  proposed  to  Mrs.  Scott 
that  we  should  leave  the  children,  as  I  thought  Harriet 
would  read  better,  and  Alice  and  she  would  talk  more  free 
ly,  if  we  were  not  there  to  listen  to  them.  I  had  another 
reason  too,  as  my  little  readers  will  presently  see.  I  want 
ed  to  speak  to  Mrs.  Scott  about  Alice,  to  learn  whether  the 
doctor  had  seen  her  after  I  went  away  the  day  before,  and 
whether  he  still  thought  that  something  might  be  done  in 
the  city  for  her  eyes.  Mrs.  Scott  told  me  he  had  been 
there  the  evening  before,  when  poor  Alice  thought  the 
room  quite  dark,  and  wondered  her  mother  did  not  bring 
in  a  light  for  the  doctor,  though  a  lamp  was  burning  bright 
ly  on  the  table  near  her.  The  doctor  passed  this  lamp  be 
fore  her  eyes,  holding  it  quite  close  to  them,  but  she  never 
winked.  Poor  Mrs.  Scott  told  me  this  with  her  eyes  full 
of  tears,  which  streamed  down  her  cheeks  as  she  added, 
that  the  doctor  did  not  speak  a  word,  but  that  the  mournful 
shake  of  his  head  as  he  set  down  the  lamp  said  as  plainly 
as  any  words  could  do,  that  he  thought  her  child's  a  very 
bad  case.  The  doctor's  house  was  quite  near  to  Mrs. 
Scott's,  and  while  she  was  speaking,  we  saw  him  coming 
home  from  a  visit  he  had  been  making.  He  was  on  horse 
back,  and  seeing  me  at  the  open  window,  he  stopped  his 
horse  at  the  gate  of  the  court-yard  to  say  that  he  was  glad 
to  see  me  at  home  again,  and  to  ask  how  his  little  friend 


28  BLIND    ALICE. 


Harriet  was,  for  Harriet  having  been,  as  I  told  you  before, 
a  very  good  child  in  her  sickness,  she  and  her  doctor  were 
very  close  friends. 

Leaving  Mrs.  Scott  in  the  parlor,  I  went  to  the  gate  of 
the  court-yard,  and  told  the  doctor  I  wanted  to  put  some 
questions  to  him  about  Alice,  which  I  would  rather  Mrs. 
Scott  should  not  hear.  He  very  kindly  got  oft'  his  horse 
and  came  quite  near  me.  I  then  told  him  that  I  wished  to 
know  from  him  whether  there  was  the  least  hope  that  any 
thing  could  be  done  in  the  city  to  restore  Alice's  sight. 
Looking  very  grave,  he  answered,  that  he  was  afraid  not, 
but  as  physicians  who  knew  more  about  the  eyes  than  he 
did  might  think  differently,  if  Mrs.  Scott  were  a  little  richer, 
or  if  he  were  rich  enough  to  help  her,  he  would  still  advise 
her  to  go.  I  told  the  doctor  that  I  had  some  friends  who  I 
thought  would  give  Mrs.  Scott  as  much  money  as  would 
take  her  to  B.  and  pay  her  board  as  long  as  it  would  be 
necessary  for  Alice  to  stay  there,  but  that  I  was  afraid  the 
attendance  of  these  oculists  would  cost  a  great  deal  more 
perhaps  than  they  could  give. 

"  Not  if  she  go  to  B.,"  said  the  doctor  quickly.  "  That, 
you  know,  is  the  place  from  which  I  came,  and  I  know 
many  physicians  there.  To  some  of  these  I  would  give 
Mrs.  Scott  letters,  and  through  them,  the  pious  and  excel 
lent  Dr.  W.,  the  best 'oculist  there,  might  be  made  ac 
quainted  with  the  case  of  our  little  Alice.  He  would,  I 
am  sure,  do  all  he  could  for  her  without  any  charge." 

I  asked  the  doctor  if  he  knew  any  thing  of  the  Institution 
for  the  blind  in  B. 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  he  replied.  "  It  is  a  most  noble  institu 
tion,  and  its  manager,  Dr.  H.,  the  most  benevolent  of  men. 
To  him  I  can  give  Mrs.  Scott  a  letter,  and  this  poor  child 
will,  I  doubt  not,  have  all  the  aid  which  he  can  give  her." 

Perhaps  my  little  readers  never  heard  of  these  institu 
tions  for  the  blind,  and  I  will  therefore  tell  them,  that  there, 
those  who  are  perfectly  blind  are  taught  to  read,  write,  sew, 
and  do  many  fancy  works,  which  it  would  seem  to  us  quite 
impossible  to  do  without  sight.  Now  you  will  see  at  once, 
if  Alice  should  continue  blind,  what  a  great  advantage  it 
would  be  to  her  to  be  taught  such  things.  To  sit  always 
in  the  dark,  and  be  able  to  do  nothing,  might  make  even  a 
merry  little  girl  sad,  while  even  blindness  may  be  borne 


BLIND    ALICE.  29 


cheerfully,  when  the  blind  can  be  employed.  Besides,  Al 
ice,  if  able  to  do  some  of  the  works  I  have  named,  might 
earn  money  by  them,  perhaps  enough  to  support  herself  and 
her  mother  too  ;  and  I  need  not  tell  you  what  a  comfort 
that  would  be  to  a  good,  affectionate  child. 

Before  the  doctor  left  me,  I  asked  him  how  soon  it  would 
be  prudent  for  Alice  to  travel ;  and  he  said,  if  she  contin 
ued  to  get  better,  she  might  set  out  on  the  following  Mon 
day,  as  she  would  go  almost  all  the  way  in  a  steamboat, 
which  would  not  fatigue  her  so  much  as  travelling  by  land. 
He  added,  if  by  Saturday  evening  I  were  able  to  get  as 
much  money  for  Mrs.  Scott  as  would  be  necessary,  he 
would  have  the  letters  he  had  promised  to  write  ready  for 
her,  and  we  would  then  meet  at  her  house  on  Sunday,  and 
tell  the  poor  little  girl  of  her  blindness,  as  kindly  and 
gently  as  we  could,  if  she  should  not  discover  it  before  that 
time. 

When  I  went  back  to  the  house,  finding  Mrs.  Scott  still 
in  the  parlor,  I  told  her  of  what  the  doctor  and  I  had  been 
speaking,  and  asked  her  whether,  if  she  should  gotoB.  and 
find  that  nothing  could  be  done  by  the  physicians  there  for 
her  child's  eyes,  she  would  be  willing  to  have  her  placed 
for  a  year  or  two  at  the  Institution  for  the  Blind. 

"  Willing,  my  dear  ma'am  !"  said  the  good  woman,  "  I 
shall  be  thankful  indeed  to  the  kind  people  who  give  their 
money  to  support  such  a  good  school,  and  still  more  to  God, 
who  put  it  in  their  hearts  to  do  so.  I  know  it  will  be  very 
hard  to  part  from  my  poor  little  girl,  even  for  an  hour,  now 
she's  so  helpless,  but  I  need  not  come  far  away  from  her, 
for  I  dare  say  I  can  get  some  kind  of  work  in  B.  by  which 
I  can  make  enough  to  live  upon,  and  if  she  can't  come 
home  to  me  at  night,  they  will,  maybe,  let  me  go  to  see  her 
every  day  ;  don't  you  think  they  will,  ma'am  ?" 

"  I  do  not  doubt  it,"  I  replied  ;  "  but  now  I  will  see  Alice, 
and  bid  her  good-by,  for  I  must  hasten  home  to  write  a 
letter  that  I  wish  to  send  away  this  afternoon." 

I  entered  Alice's  room  as  I  spoke,  and  found  her  still 
listening  to  the  book  which  Harriet  had  not  more  than 
half  finished  reading,  as  she  had  stopped  to  talk  over  with 
Alice  whatever  seemed  to  her  most  pleasant  in  it.  Alice 
seemed  so  unwilling  to  part  with  Harriet,  that  I  gave  her 
permission  to  stay  till  evening,  when  I  promised  to  send 

3* 


30  BLIND    ALICE. 


for  her,  adding  that  I  would  call  again  myself  the  next 
morning. 

"  And  then,  ma'am,"  said  Alice,  "  do  you  not  think — " 
she  stopped,  and  seemed  confused. 

"  Do  I  not  think  what,  Alice — speak,  my  dear  child, — 
what  would  you  ask  ?" 

"  I  am  afraid  you  will  think  me  very  teasing,  ma'am  ; 
but  I  am  so  tired  of  the  dark.  Do  you  not  think  I  can 
take  off  the  handkerchief  by  that  time  ?" 

•It  made  me  very  sad  to  hear  her  speak  of  being  tired  of  the 
dark — so  sad  that  I  could  not  answer  her  directly.  Think 
ing  from  my  silence  that  I  was  displeased  with  her,  she 
burst  into  tears  and  said,  "  I  was  afraid  you  would  be  an 
gry  with  me." 

"  Indeed,  my  dear  child,"  said  I,  kissing  her  and  wiping 
the  tears  from  her  face,  "  I  am  not  angry,  nor  am  I  at  all 
surprised  that  you  should  be  tired  of  this  unpleasant  band 
age,  but  you  will  not  now  have  to  bear  it  long.  This  is 
Thursday — on  Sunday  the  doctor  says  he  will  take  it  off 
altogether.  You  will  try,  I  hope,  for  the  next  two  days  to 
bear  it  as  cheerfully,  and  think  of  it  as  little, as  possible." 

"  Oh  yes,  ma'am  !  indeed  I  will, — I  will  not  say  another 
word  about  it." 

"  And  now,  my  dear  little  girl,  I  would  have  you  re 
member  in  all  your  troubles,  little  and  great,  that  He  who 
sends  them  is  God,  your  kind  and  tender  heavenly  Father. 
Do  you  think,  Alice,  that  your  mother  would  willingly    -^ 
make  you  suffer  pain  ?" 

"  No,  ma'am,  I  am  sure  she  would  not." 

"  And  yet  she  has  given  you,  since  you  were  sick,  very 
bad-tasted  and  sickening  medicine,  and  even  put  a  blister 
on  you,  which  must  have  given  you  great  pain.  Why  was 
this  ?" 

"  To  save  me  from  being  more  ill,  and  having  greater 
pain,  and  to  make  me  well,"  said  Alice,  in  a  very  Ipw 
voice. 

"  True,  my  dear  child ;  and  God,  who  tells  us  in  the  Bi 
ble  that  he  loves  us  better  than  even  mothers  love  their 
children,  never,  we  may  be  sure,  suffers  any  pain  or  trou 
ble  to  come  upon  us  which  is  not  to  save  us  from  greater 
pain,  to  make  us  better.  Remember  this,  and  it  will  help 
you  to  bear  a  great  many  things  easily,  which  would  other- 


BLIND    ALICE. 


31 


wise  seem  very  hard  and  fret  you  very  much.  Harriet, 
can  you  not  repeat  for  Alice  those  lines  you  learned  the 
other  day,  called  a  conversation  between  a  mother  and  her 
sick  child  ?" 

As  Alice  looked  very  grave,  I  pressed  her  little  hand  in 
mine,  and  without  speaking  went  out  of  the  room,  as  Har 
riet  began  to  recite  the  lines  which  I  will  set  down  here, 
as  I  think  my  little  readers  would  like  to  see  them. 

Conversation  between  a  Mother  and  her  sick  Child. 


Mother,  we  read  to-day,  you  know, 

Where  holy  Scriptures  tell 
That  Jesus,  when  he  lived  below, 

Loved  little  children  well. 

And  then  you  told  me  how  his  word, 

From  the  bad  spirit's  power, 
Freed  him,  who  never  spoke,  nor  heard, 

Until  that  blessed  hour. 

Beside  the  ruler's  lifeless  child, 

In  pitying  tone  he  spoke, 
"  The  maiden  sleeps" — though  scorners  smiled, 

She  heard  his  voice,  and  woke. 

And  now,  you  say,  above  the  sky 

Unchanged,  he  loves  us  still ; 
Then  why  did  he  let  baby  die, 

And  why  am  I  so  ill  ? — 

MOTHER. 
When  Mary  walk'd  with  mother  last, 

She  saw  a  little  flower, 
Drooping  its  head  and  fading  fast 

Within  her  garden  bower. 

To  a  more  sunny  spot  removed, 
That  flower  blooms  fair  and  bright ; 

Our  drooping  baby  Jesus  loved, 
And  bore  from  earthly  blight 

And  though,  my  child,  I  cannot  tell 

Why  yet  he  leaves  you  ill, 
As  I  am  sure  he  loves  you  well, 

I  doubt  not  that  he  will, 
At  the  best  time,  heal  every  pain, 
And  make  my  Mary  well  again. 


32  BLIND    ALICE. 


The  letter  which  I  had  told  Mrs.  Scott  I  wished  to  send 
off  that  afternoon  was  to  Harriet's  grandfather,  to  whom  I 
intended  writing  about  Alice  ;  for  he  was  a  very  kind,  good 
man,  and  was  always  glad  to  be  told  of  those  who  wanted, 
when  he  had  any  thing  to  give.  He  had  promised  to  make 
us  a  visit  soon,  but  I  did  not  know  that  it  would  be  so  soon 
as  this  week.  However,  about  an  hour  after  I  had  gone 
home,  when  I  had  written,  and  just  as  I  was  folding  my 
letter,  a  carriage  drove  to  the  door,  and  he  alighted  from 
it.  As  I  knew  he  would  stay  with  us  two  or  three  days  I 
was  in  no  hurry  to  speak  of  Alice,  preferring  to  wait  till 
Harriet  came  home  in  the  evening,  and  see  whether  she 
would  think  of  interesting  her  grandfather  in  her  little 
friend.  He  had  been  with  me  about  two  hours  when  I 
sent  for  her,  and  he  told  the  servant  who  went  that  she  need 
not  mention  his  coming,  for  he  thought  it  would  be  very 
pleasant  to  see  Harriet's  first  joy  at  meeting  him,  when  she 
so  little  expected  to  see  him. 

As  Harriet  came  back  with  the  servant,  we  could  now 
and  then  catch  a  glimpse  of  her  white  dress  through  an 
opening  of  the  wood,  and  while  she  was  still  too  far  off  to 
distinguish  the  faces  of  persons  sitting  in  the  parlor,  her 
grandfather  moved  away  from  the  window,  so  that  she  might 
not  see  him  till  she  was  quite  in  the  parlor.  She  came  up 
the  steps  and  through  the  porch  and  to  the  parlor  door  very 
quietly  and  rather  slowly,  as  if  she  was  almost  sorry  to 
come  in ;  but  the  moment  she  saw  her  grandfather,  she 
threw  down  the  flowers  she  had  been  picking,  and  spring 
ing  towards  him,  was  in  his  lap  before  he  could  even  rise 
from  his  chair  to  meet  her,  crying  out,  "  Oh  grandpapa  ! 
I  am  so  glad  to  see  you — so  very,  very  glad — more  glad 
than  I  ever  was  in  my  life  before." 

"  Why,  how  is  that  ?"  said  he,  smiling  and  kissing  her, 
"  I  thought  my  little  pet  was  always  as  glad  to  see  old 
grandpapa  as  she  could  possibly  be." 

"  So  I  thought,  too,  but. now  I  am  more  glad  than  ever, 
for  I  want  some  more  money  very,  very  much  ;  and  I  know 
you  will  give  me  some." 

Mr.  Armand,  for  that  was  his  name,  looked  all  at  once 
very  grave,  and  said,  "  So — it  is  to  get  money  you  are  glad 
— not  to  see  me  !" 

I  saw  he  was  not  quite  well  pleased,  for  he  turned  ask  e 


BLIND    ALICE.  33 


his  face  as  Harriet  would  have  kissed  him,  and  seemed 
about  to  put  her  out  of  his  lap.  But  Harriet  was  too  eager 
to  notice  all  this ;  she  kept  her  seat,  and  putting  her  arm 
around  his  neck,  spoke  very  fast,  "  Oh  yes,  grandpapa  !  you 
know  I  am  always  glad  to  see  you ;  but  now  I  do  want 
some  money  for  poor  Alice." 

"For  poor  Alice," .  said  Mr.  Armand,  "that  alters  the 
case,"  and  drawing  her  close  to  him  again,  and  looking 
much  better  satisfied  with  her,  he  added,  "  And  who  is 
Alice  ? — and  what  makes  her  poor  ?" 

"  Alice  !  Why  don't  you  remember  Alice  Scott,  that  I 
talked  so  much  about  when  I  was  at  your  house  ?  Don't 
you  remember  I  told  you  I  loved  to  play  with  her  better 
than  with  any  of  the  girls,  because  she  was  so  good-natured, 
and  never  was  tired  ?" 

"  Ah  !  now  I  think  I  do  remember  something  of  her. 
And  is  it  because  she  is  so  pleasant  a  playfellow,  that  you 
wish  me  to  give  you  some  money  for  her  ?" 

"  Oh  no,  grandpapa — that  would  be  funny,"  said  Har 
riet,  laughing  ;  but  in  a  minute  she  was  looking  very  se 
rious  again,  and  went  on  speaking  more  slowly—"  Poor 
Alice's  father  is  dead — he  died  while  we  were  away — and 
her  mother  is  very  poor,  and  Alice  has  been  ill,  and  oh, 
grandpapa !  she's  blind,  quite  blind,  and  Dr.  Franks  says 
he  cannot  do  her  any  good,  but  that  there  are  some  doctors, 
eye-doctors,  oculists — is  it  not,  Aunt  Kitty  ? — ki  B., 
who  might  do  something  for  her,  and  poor  Mrs.  Scott  has 
not  any  money  to  carry  her  there.  Now,  grandpapa,  will 
you  not  give  me  some  for  her?" 

"  Have  you  given  her  some  yourself,  Harriet  ?" 

"  Yes,  grandpapa,  I  have  given  her  all  I  had,  but 
though  it  was  a  great  deal  for  me  it  is  not  near  enough  for 
her,  you  know." 

Mr.  Armand  was  silent  a  minute,  and  then  said,  "  I  am 
very  sdrry,  my  dear  child,  to  disappoint  you,  and  still  more 
sorry  not  to  help  your  little  friend,  in  whom  I  feel  much 
interest ;  but  what  can  I  do  ?  I  have  just  spent  a  great 
deal  of  money  on  a  present  for  you,  and  I  really  have  now 
none  to  give." 

"  Spent  a  great  deal  of  money  on  a  present  for  me  !"  re 
peated  Harriet,  with  a  wondering  face. 

"  Yes,  my  deai .     J  think  eighty  dollars  a  great  deal  of 


34  BLIND    ALICE. 


money  to  spend  for  a  little  girl,  and  I  have  just  given  all 
that  for  a  present  for  you.  Do  you  remember  the  little 
pony  you  saw  at  Mr.  Lewis's  house,  and  do  you  remember 
thinking  Eliza  Lewis  must  be  a  very  happy  little  girl,  be 
cause  she  had  such  a  large  wax  doll  to  play  with  in  the 
house,  and  such  a  little  pony  to  ride  when  she  went  out  ?" 

"  Oh,  grandpapa  !  I  know  that  was  very  foolish  in  me, 
but  I  remember  it  all — the  beautiful  pony  and  all." 

"  Well,  my  dear,  that,  beautiful  pony  is  now  yours,  and 
will  be  here  this  evening  with  a  new  saddle  and  bridle, 
for  all  of  which  I  gave,  as  I  have  just  told  you,  eighty 
dollars." 

"  Oh,  Aunt  Kitty !"  cried  Harriet,  her  eyes  bright  with 
joy,  "  only  hear,  that  beautiful  little  pony ! — and  he  is  so 
gentle  I  may  ride  him  all  by  myself — may  I  not,  grand 
papa  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  bought  him  on  that  account,  for  your  aunt  told 
me  that  she  would  like  to  have  you  ride,  but  feared  to  put 
you  on  one  of  her  horses.  This  pony,"  he  said,  turning 
to  me,  "  is  as  gentle  as  a  lamb,  and  so  well  broken  and 
obedient,  that  you  scarcely  need  a  bridle  for  him.  I  made 
them  bring  him  very  slowly,  and  rest  him  some  hours  on 
the  road,  that  he  might  not  be  at  all  tired  when  he  got  here, 
for  I  thought  Harriet  would  want  a  ride  to-morrow  morn- 
ing." 

"  Y|s,  yes,  dear  grandpapa,  that  will  be  so  pleasant,  and 
I  can'ride  him  to  Mrs.  Scott's,  and  let  Alice  see — oh  grand 
papa  !"  suddenly  stopping  herself  and  looking  very  sad, 
"  she  cannot  see  him.  I  had  forgotten  all  about  it — and 
now  you  have  not  any  money  for  her,  what  will  she  do  ? 
Poor  Alice  !" 

"  I  am  very  sorry  for  her,"  said  Mr.  Armand,  "  for  it 
must  be  a  sad  thing  to  be  blind.  Had  I  heard  about  her 
this  morning,  I  do  not  know  that  you  would  have  got  your 
pony,  for  a  gentleman,  at  whose  house  I  stopped,  wanted 
him  so  much  that  he  offered  to  buy  him  from  me  at  any 
price.  However,  he  is  now  yours,  and  I  have  no  right  to 
him  or  to  the  money  he  would  bring.  I  hope  you  will  en 
joy  riding  him  very  much,  and  think  of  dear  grandpapa 
whenever  you  ride." 

He  kissed  her  again  and  put  her  down  from  his  lap. 
Harriet  stood  beside  him,  and  smiled  a  little  at  first,  but  not 


BLIND    ALICE.  35 


so  joyfully  as  she  had  done  when  she  first  heard  of  pony. 
After  a  while  her  countenance  grew  more  and  more  seri 
ous.  Several  minutes  had  passed,  and  her  grandfather  and 
i  were  talking  of  something  else,  when  Harriet  said  to  him, 
"  Grandpapa,  would  that  gentleman  who  wanted  pony,  give 
you  the  whole  eighty  dollars  back  again  ?" 

"  Yes,  my  love." 

"  And  would  you  give  it  all  to  Alice,  grandpapa  ?" 

"  I  should  have  no  right  to  give  any  of  it,  Harriet.  The 
pony  is  now  yours,  and  should  you  choose  me  to  sell  him, 
the  money  would  be  yours,  and  I  should  honestly  pay  every 
cent  of  it  to  you,  and  you  could  give  it  to  Alice  if  you 
liked." 

Harriet  was  again  silent  for  a  minute  or  two,  and  seemed 
very  thoughtful ;  then,  raising  her  head  and  putting  her 
hand  into  her  grandfather's,  she  said,  "  Grandpapa,  please 
take  pony  back  and  send  me  the  money." 

Her  grandfather  laid  his  hand  affectionately  on  her  head, 
and  said,  "  Certainly,  my  child,  if  you  wish  it,  when  I  am 
going, — that  will  give  you  two  nights  and  a  day  to  think  of 
it.  You  have  not  seen  pony's  new  saddle  and  bridle  yet, 
and  you  may  change  your  mind." 

"  Oh,  no,  grandpapa,  I  shall  not  change  my  mind,  for  I 
am  sure  it  is  right  to  do  without  pony  myself,  and  let  Alice 
have  the  money." 

She  looked  at  me  as  she  said  this,  and  I  replied,  "  I  am 
pleased  that  you  have  not  forgotten  what  we  talked  of  this 
morning." 

Pony  came,  and  beautiful  he  was,  and  very  pretty  was 
the  new  saddle  and  bridle ;  and  Harriet  rode  him  to  Mrs. 
Scott's,  in  the  morning,  and  home  again,  and  very  much 
did  she  enjoy  her  ride  ;  yet  she  did  not  change  her  mind, 
for  when  her  grandfather  asked,  on  the  morning  he  left  us, 
"Well,  Harriet,  does  pony  go  with  me,  or  stay  with  you  ?" 
she  answered  directly,  "  Go  with  you,  grandpapa."  And 
when  he  was  brought  to  the  door,  all  saddled  and  bridled 
for  his  journey,  she  went  up  to  him,  and  stroking  his  sleek 
sides,  said,  smilingly,  "  Good-by,  my  pretty  pony — good- 
by ;  I  could  love  you  very  much,  but  not  so  much  as  I 
love  Alice." 

So  pony  went  on  Saturday  morning  ;  and  on  Saturday 
evening  (for  the  gentleman  who  bought  him  only  lived 


36  BLIND    ALICE. 


about  ten  miles  from  us)  came  the  eighty  dollars,  enclosed 
in  a  very  affectionate  note  to  Harriet,  from  her  grandfather. 
She  seemed  never  tired  of  reading  the  note,  or  of  admiring 
the  pretty  new  bills  that  were  in  it.  When  she  gave  me 
these  bills  for  Mrs.  Scott,  she  begged  me  not  to  say  any 
thing  about  her  in  giving  them.  As  I  always  liked  to  know 
my  little  girl's  reasons  for  what  she  did,  I  asked,  "  And 
why,  my  dear  ?" 

She  looked  confused,  hesitated  a  good  deal,  and  said, 
"  Aunt  Kitty,  do  you  remember  when  that  little  baby's 
mother  died  last  summer,  and  I  begged  you  to  let  me  make 
its  clothes,  and — and — oh,  you  remember,  Aunt  Kitty." 

"  Yes,  Harriet,  I  remember  that  you  sewed  very  indus 
triously  at  first,  and  afterwards,  getting  tired  of  your  work, 
the  poor  little  baby  wanted  clothes  sadly." 

"  But,  Aunt  Kitty,  that  is  not  all.  Do  you  not  remember 
what  you  told  me  was  the  reason  I  felt  tired  so  soon  ?" 

"  I  think  I  do ;  was  it  not  that  you  had  done  it  from  a 
desire  for  praise,  and  that  as  soon  as  people  were  tired  of 
praising  you,  you  were  tired  of  working  ?  But  I  do  not 
see  why  you  speak  of  that  now  ;  when  you  have  given  the 
money  to  Alice,  you  cannot  take  it  back,  so  you  need  not 
be  afraid  of  changing." 

"No,  Aunt  Kitty,  not  of  changing — at  least  I  could  not 
take  it  back — but — but  you  know — "  she  stopped,  and 
hung  her  head. 

"  If  you  did  it  for  praise,  you  think  you  might  get  sorry 
for  having  done  it,  and  wish  you  could  take  it  back,  when 
people  were  done  praising  you." 

"  Yes,  Aunt  Kitty,  that  is  it — and  if  people  knew  it,  I 
could  not  be  quite  sure  that  I  was  not  doing  it  to  be  praised, 
you  know.  I  am  very  happy,  now  that  dear  Alice  will 
have  it,  and  I  do  not  think  I  can  ever  want  to  take  it  back, 
or  ever  be  sorry  for  giving  it  to  her ;  but  you  told  me  the 
other  day,  that  doing  right  was  the  only  thing  I  could  be 
certain  of  always  being  glad  of ;  so  I  would  rather,  if  you 
please,  you  would  riot  say  any  thing  about  me,  and  then  I 
shall  know  that  I  have  done  it  only  because  it  is  right,  and 
that  it  will  always  make  me  just  as  happy  as  I  am  now." 

I  was  too  much  pleased  with  Harriet's  reasons,  to  refuse 
her  request ;  so  no  one  but  her  grandfather,  her  grand 
mother,  and  myself,  ever  knew  what  she  had  done  for 


BLIND    ALICE.  37 


Alice,  till  now  that  I  have  told  it  to  you,  which  I  would  not 
have  done,  did  I  not  feel  sure  that  after  what  I  have  said  of 
her  wishes,  you  would  not,  if  you  should  ever  meet  her, 
speak  to  her  on  the  subject. 

I  was  able  to  add  twenty  dollars  to  Harriet's  gift,  and  so 
there  were  one  hundred  dollars  for  Mrs.  Scott  to  begin  her 
journey  with.  It  would  cost  her  but  little  to  go  to  B.,  and 
this  would  enable  her  to  stay  there  quite  long  enough  to 
learn  what  could  be  done  for  Alice.  Harriet  thought  she 
would  rather  give  her  gold  piece  to  her  friend  herself,  to 
spend  as  she  liked. 

On  Sunday  afternoon  the  doctor  and  I  met,  as  we  had 
agreed  to  do,  at  Mrs.  Scott's.  We  saw  her  first  in  the  par 
lor.  I  gave  her  the  money,  and  the  doctor  had  his  letters 
ready  for  her,  and  explained  very  carefully  to  her  what  he 
wished  her  to  do.  He  had  already  sent  by  the  mail  a  let 
ter  to  his  sister,  who  lived  in  B.,  telling  her  of  Mrs.  Scott's 
coming,  and  requesting  her  to  look  out  for  some  quiet 
place,  where  she  might  be  cheaply  boarded,  as  near  as 
possible  to  the  Institution  for  the  Blind,  for  there  he  thought 
Alice  would  have  to  go.  He  now  gave  Mrs.  Scott,  on  a 
card,  his  sister's  name,  and  the  name  of  the  place  where 
she  lived,  telling  her  to  go  there  when  she  arrived  in  B., 
and  if  his  sister  had  not  found  a  place  for  her,  he  was  sure 
she  would  keep  her  at  her  own  house  till  she  did.  Having 
arranged  all  these  things  with  Mrs.  Scott,  we  went  into 
Alice's  room. 

Alice  was  sitting  up,  and  was  so  anxious  for  our  coming, 
and  so  happy  at  the  thought  of  seeing  once  more,  that  she 
had  quite  a  rosy  color  in  her  cheeks.  The  doctor  looked 
at  her  very  sadly,  and  said  "  How  d'ye  do"  to  her,  with  a 
very  soft  and  kind  voice.  She  seemed  hardly  to  hear  him 
— but  said  very  quickly,  with  a  pleasant  smile,  "  Now,  doc 
tor,  must  I  take  off  the  handkerchief?"  and  raised  her 
hand  to  take  out  the  pin  which  fastened  it. 

"  Not  yet,  my  dear,"  said  the  doctor,  taking  hold  of  her 
hand,  "  I  wish  to  say  something  to  you  first.  I  fear,  Alice, 
that  you  are  going  to  be  very  much  disappointed.  You 
have  no  idea  how  very  bad  your  eyes  are.  They  give  you 
no  pain,  and  therefore  you  think  there  cannot  be  much  the 
matter  with  them  ;  but,  my  dear  child,  those  are  not  the 
worst  diseases  of  the  eye  which  give  the  most  pain.  You 

4 


38  BLIND  ALICE. 


think  that  only  this  handkerchief  keeps  you  •from  seeing, 
but  I  am  afraid  that  when  I  take  it  off  you  will  still  see 
very  dimly — very  dimly  indeed — nay,  Alice,  I  may  as 
well  tell  you  all, — I  fear,  that  at  present,  at  least,  and  per 
haps  for  many  days  to  come,  you  will  not  see  at  all." 

As  Dr.  Franks  spoke,  the  smile  had  gone  from  Alice's 
lip,  and  the  color  from  her  cheek,  so  that  when  he  was  done, 
instead  of  the  bright,  happy  face  she  had  when  we  came 
in,  she  was  looking  very  pale  and  very  sad.  She  seemed 
to  have  forgotten  the  handkerchief,  her  hands  hung  down 
in  her  lap,  and  she  did  not  speak  a  word.  Both  the  doctor 
and  I  were  much  grieved  for  her,  and  Mrs.  Scott's  tears 
fell  upon  her  head  as  she  stood  leaning  over  the  back  of 
her  chair.  Alice  did  not  weep — indeed,  she  seemed  quite 
stunned. 

After  a  while,  the  doctor  said,  "  Alice,  this  handkerchief 
is  of  no  use  to  you,  and  it  must  be  very  warm  and  un 
pleasant — shall  I  take  it  off?" 

Her  lips  moved,  and  she  tried  to  say,  "  Yes,  sir,"  but 
we  could  scarcely  hear  her. 

It  was  taken  off.  Alice  kept  her  eyes  shut  for  a  little 
time,  and  then  opened  them  suddenly,  and  turning  them 
first  towards  the  window,  looked  slowly  around  the  room, 
then  shut  them  again,  without  saying  a  word.  She  soon 
opened  them,  and  looking  towards  the  doctor,  said,  in  a  low, 
faltering  voice,  "  Doctor,  is  it  night  ?" 

"  No,  my  child,  it  is  not  more  than  four  o'clock  in  the 
afternoon."  « 

She  was  silent  a  minute,  then  said,  "  Is  it  cloudy  ?" 

"  No,  Alice,  the  sun  is  shining  brightly." 

She  was  again  still  for  a  little  while — the  tears  began  to 
come  into  her  eyes,  and  her  lip  quivered  very  much,  as 
speaking  again,  she  said,  "Are  the  windows  shut ?" 

The  doctor  again  answered  her,  "  No,  they  are  open, 
and  the  sashes  raised." 

Poor  Alice  covered  her  eyes  with  her  hands  for  a  sec 
ond,  then  stretching  out  her  arms,  and  turning  her  head 
around  as  if  looking  for  some  one,  she  cried  mournfully, 
"  Mother,  mother,  where  are  you  ?" 

"  Here,  my  own  precious  child,"  said  Mrs.  Scott,  as 
coming  round  to  the  side  of  the  chair,  she  put  her  arms 
around  her,  and  drew  her  head  down  upon  her  bosom. 


BLIND    ALICE.  39 


Alice  did  not  cry  aloud,  but  her  tears  came  fast,  and  hei 
sobs  were  so  deep,  that  it  seemed  as  though  her  heart 
would  break  with  this  great  sorrow.  The  doctor  said, 
softly,  to  Mrs.  Scott,  "  Persuade  her  to  go  to  bed,  as  soon 
as  you  can,"  and  then  both  he  and  I  went  out,  for  we  knew 
her  mother  would  be  her  best  comforter. 

Mrs.  Scott  was  to  leave  her  home  at  ten  o'clock  the 
next  morning,  and  at  nine  Harriet  went  over  to  say  some 
parting  words  to  Alice,  and  I  to  receive  some  last  directions 
from  Mrs.  Scott  about  taking  care  of  the  house  and  furni 
ture  for  her.  I  could  see  that  Harriet  was  almost  afraid 
to  meet  Alice,  thinking  she  must  be  very  miserable  now 
that  her  blindness  was  known  to  her.  But  though  she 
looked  sadly,  and  turned  away  with  tears  in  her  eyes  when 
we  first  spoke  to  her,  she  soon  began  to  talk  with  Harriet 
about  her  journey.  She  seemed  to  hope  to  receive  great 
good  from  the  physicians  in  B.,  and  I  was  glad  to  find  that 
her  mother  had  not  tried  to  discourage  this  hope  ;  for,  I  said 
to  myself,  if  nothing  can  be  done  for  her,  she  will  find  it 
out  soon  enough,  and  every  day  that  passes  will  help  to  pre 
pare  her  better  for  it.  She  seemed  much  gratified  by  Har 
riet's  present  of  the  gold  piece,  and  when  she  bade  me 
good-by,  said,  "  I  thank  you,  ma'am,  very  much,  for  all 
your  goodness  to  me." 

Mrs.  Scott,  too,  begged  me  to  tell  the  friends  who  had 
helped  her  how  very  grateful  she  was  to  them,  and  how 
earnestly  she  would  pray  to  God  to  reward  them  for  all 
their  goodness  to  her  and  her  fatherless  girl.  I  knew  by 
the  color  that  came  into  Harriet's  face,  and  the  tears  that 
sprang  into  her  eyes,  as  the  good  woman  spoke,  that  she 
had  heard  her ;  and  I  was  glad  of  it,  for  I  thought  that  she 
deserved  to  be  made  as  happy  as  I  felt  certain  such  thank 
fulness  would  make  her,  for  her  desire  to  do  right,  and  her 
readiness  to  give  up  her  own  pleasures  for  her  friend's  good. 

After  our 'friends  were  gone,  I  spent  some  time  in  giving 
directions  to  Betty  about  the  cleaning  and  putting  away 
things,  so  that  she  might  leave  the  house  in  order ;  and 
Harriet  kept  herself  from  being  very  sad  by  working  in 
Alice's  garden,  weeding  the  beds  and  tying  up  the  flowers, 
which,  as  I  said  before,  had  been  left  during  her  illness  to 
trail  upon  the  ground. 

Mrs.  Scott  had  promised  to  write  to  me  as  soon  as  the 


40  BLIND  ALICE. 


physicians  had  decided  whether  they  could  or  could  not  be 
of  any  service  to  Alice ;  and  you  may  be  sure  we  looked 
very  anxiously  for  her  letter.  It  came  about  two  weeks  af 
ter  she  had  left  us,  and  I  will  copy  it  for  you  here,  as  I  am 
sure  you  will  like  to  see  it. 

B ,  July  2,  18—. 

MY  DEAR  MADAM, — 

You  were  so  kind  as  to  ask  me  to  let  you  know  what  the 
doctors  here  might  think  of  my  little  girl's  case,  and  I  have 
only  been  waiting  for  them  to  make  up  their  minds  about  it, 
before  I  wrote  to  you.  Yesterday  they  told  me,  what  I  felt 
long  ago,  that  they  could  not  help  her.  This  is  a  great 
trial,  ma'am,  but,  blessed  be  God,  with  great  trials  He  sends 
great  mercies.  I  don't  know,  ma'am,  how  to  tell  you  the 
thankfulness  that  is  in  my  heart,  first  to  Him,  and  then  to 
you  and  Dr.  Franks,  and  all  the  other  kind  friends  that 
have  helped  me  through  this  affliction.  It  is  a  comfort  to 
me  to  feel  that  every  thing  has  been  done  for  my  poor 
child  that  could  be  done  ;  indeed,  I  fear  it  would  have  bro 
ken  my  heart  to  think  that  something  might  be  done  to 
make  her  see  again,  and  to  feel  that  I  could  never  get 
money  enough  to  pay  for  that  something,  if  I  worked  till  I 
was  dead.  Oh  !  I  thank  God  that  I  have  not  got  that  to 
bear. 

But  I  am  forgetting  all  this  time  to  tell  you  how  kind 
everybody  here  has  been  to  me.  Miss  Franks  is  the  doc 
tor's  own  sister,  I  am  sure,  for  she  is  just  such  another  kind 
and  generous  person.  The  steamboat  did  not  get  here  till 
it  began  to  grow  quite  dark,  and  I  was  very  much  troubled, 
thinking  how  I  should  find  my  way  up  through  the  crowd, 
and  fearing  lest  my  little  trunk  should  get  lost,  which  had 
all  our  clothes  in  it,  or  that  if  I  went  to  see  about  that,  Al 
ice  would  get  hurt,  when  a  man  came  on  board  and  asked 
for  me.  He  said  Miss  Franks  had  sent  him  with  a  car 
riage  to  bring  us  to  her  house.  It  was  a  hired  carriage, 
as  I  found  afterwards,  for  I  thought  at  first  it  was  her  own ; 
but  she  would  not  let  me  pay  any  thing  for  it.  Was  not 
this  kind  ?  She  had  us  to  stay  at  her  house  the  first  night, 
and  the  next  morning  took  us  again  in  a  carriage  to  the 
place  where  she  had  got  board  for  us.  This  was  in  a  very 
neat  house,  and  with  a  clever,  good  woman.  She  is  an  el- 


BLIND  ALICE.  41 


derly.  single  •woman,  who  seems  to  be  pious,  and  is  very 
kind  to  us.  Miss  Franks  sent  round  her  brother's  letters, 
after  she  had  written  on  them  the  name  of  the  street  and 
number  of  the  house  we  were  staying  at,  that  the  doctors 
might  know  where  to  find  Alice. 

The  next  day  three  doctors  came  and  brought  with  them 

a  Dr.  W ,  who,  they  said,  knew  more  about  the  eyes 

than  any  of  them.  At  first  my  little  girl  seemed  shy  of 
having  so  many  strangers  see  her  ;  but  they  were  so  kind 
to  her,  that  she  does  not  feel  at  all  afraid  now.  Indeed, 
ma'am,  everybody  is  kind  to  her,  and  they  speak  so  softly 
and  pitifully  to  her,  that  it  often  makes  the  tears  come  into 
my  eyes,  and  my  heart  feel  so  full,  that  I  have  to  go  away 
to  my  room  and  thank  God  for  all  His  goodness  and  theirs 
to  her ;  for  you  know,  ma'am,  goodness  to  her  child,  and 
that  a  poor  blind  child  too,  is  more  to  a  mother  than  any 
thing  people  could  do  for  her. 

Two  or  three  days  ago,  Dr.  H.,  who  they  say  is  at  the 
head  of  that  Institution  for  the  blind  you  talked  to  me  about, 
came  to  see  us,  and  he  talked  so  gentle  and  pleasant  like, 
that  Alice  loved  him  right  away.  He  had  some  talk  with 
the  doctors  when  they  came,  and  then  he  asked  Alice  if  she 
would  not  like  to  know  how  blind  children,  who  never  had 
seen  at  all,  read  and  wrote  and  sewed,  and  told  her,  if  she 
would  come  to  his  house,  he  would  teach  her  as  they  were 
taught,  and  that  she  would  find  many  of  them  learning 
there.  Alice  seemed  very  glad  to  hear  that  she  might 
learn  to  do  these  things  now,  and  need  not  wait  doing 
nothing  till  her  eyes  got  well,  for  you  know,  ma'am,  she 
was  always  an  industrious  child,  and  it  grieves  her  sadly 
to  sit  all  day  idle.  She  asked  though  if  I  could  come  with 
her,  and  the  kind  gentleman  said  I  could  come  with  her  in 
the  morning,  and  bring  her  away  in  the  afternoon.  This 
made  my  heart  jump  for  joy,  for  I  was  afraid  he  was  go 
ing  to  say  she  must  stay  there  all  the  time.  She  will  begin 
to  go  next  Monday. 

And  now,  ma'am,  I  must  tell  you  some  more  of  Miss 
Franks'  goodness.  She  has  got  me  some  plain  sewing,  and 
so  many  of  her  friends  promise  to  employ  me  in  that  way, 
that  I  hope  I  shall  be  able  to  live  by  my  needle  ;  and  then, 
ma'am,  I  think,  maybe  I  ought  to  send  back  what  money 
I  have  left,  to  them  that  were  so  good  as  to  give  it  to  me. 

4* 


42  BLIND    ALICE. 


Will  you  please,  ma'am,  to  tell  me  if  this  would  be  right  ? 
Alice  begs  me  to  send  her  love  to  her  dear  friend,  Miss 
Harriet,  and  her  dutiful  respects  to  you.  She  bid  me  tell 
Miss  Harriet  that  she  has  not  spent  her  gold  piece  yet. 
Please,  ma'am,  to  tell  the  doctor  how  kind  his  sister  has 
been  to  us,  and  thank  him  for  all  he  has  done  for  us.  I  am 
afraid,  ma'am,  I  have  tired  you  with  this  long  letter ;  but 
indeed  when  I  began  to  write,  I  could  not  help  telling  you 
of  all  the  goodness  which  has  been  showed  to  me.  God 
bless  you,  ma'am,  prays 

Yours,  very  thankfully, 

MARTHA  SCOTT." 

Mrs.  Scott  was  told  that  those  who  had  given  her  the 
money  would  not  have  any  of  it  returned,  and  she  then,  I 
afterwards  found,  paid  every  one  in  our  village  to  whom 
she  owed  any  thing,  saying,  that  though  they  had  told 
her  to  make  herself  easy,  she  could  not  be  easy  while  she 
was  in  debt  to  those  who,  she  knew,  needed  the  money. 

In  a  few  months  after  she  went  to  the  Institution  for  the 
Blind,  Alice  wrote  a  letter  to  Harriet,  and  from  that  time 
they  wrote  to  each  other  as  often  at  least  as  once  in  a  month. 
It  has  been  now  about  three  months  since  Dr.  Franks,  who 
had  been  making  a  visit  in  B ,  brought  Harriet  a  let 
ter  from  Alice,  which  gave  her  great  delight.  You  shall 
read  it  for  yourself,  and  see  how  much  reason  she  had  to 
be  pleased  with  it. 

B ,  April  14,  18—. 

DEAR  HARRIET, — 

I  am  so  happy  that  I  can  hardly  write,  or  do  any  thing 
but  tell  everybody  near  me  how  happy  I  am  ;  or  when 
there  is  nobody  near  me,  sit  down  and  think  of  you  and 
your  good  aunt,  and  Dr.  Franks,  and  Susan  and  Lucy,  and 
everybody  that  lives  at  home.  Oh,  Harriet,  we  are  com 
ing  there — coming  home  next  week — dear  home.  It  is  the 
middle  of  April  now,  and  so  many  flowers  will  be  opening, 
and  the  peach-trees  and  the  apple-trees  will  be  in  bloom 
soon,  and  they  will  look  so  beautiful.  I  cannot  see  them, 
but  I  can  smell  them,  and  feel  them,  and  think  how  they 
look.  Oh,  Harriet,  how  much  better  off  I  am  than  the 
poor  children  who  never  did  see,  and  who  cannot  remem- 


BLIND    ALICE.  43 


her  how  such  things  looked  !    But  I  cannot  write  any  more 
now,  except  good-by,  from  your  affectionate 

ALICE. 

P.  S. — I  have  spent  the  gold  piece  ;  I  will  show  you 
how,  when  I  come. 

Mrs.  Scott  sent  a  message  to  me  by  the  doctor,  to  ask, 
with  many  apologies  for  troubling  me,  that  I  would  get 
Betty  Maclaurin  to  go  to  her  house  early.in  the  next  week, 
and  put  every  thing  in  order  for  her  by  Wednesday  even 
ing,  as  she  hoped  to  be  -at  home  some  time  in  that  night. 
Betty  liked  Mrs.  Scott  and  Alice,  and  was  quite  ready  to 
do  them  a  kindness ;  so,  early  on  Monday  morning,  she 
was  at  work,  and  she  worked  so  industriously  in  the  house, 
and  Harriet  so  industriously  in  Alice's  garden,  that,  before 
Wednesday  evening,  both  house  and  garden  were  in  per 
fect  order.  .•  * 

Harriet's  grandfather  had  taken  so  much  interest  in 
Alice,  that  he  had  said,  when  she  came  home  he  intended 
to  come  to  see  her ;  so  Harriet  found  time,  in  the  midst 
of  all  her  preparations  for  her  friend's  arrival,  to  write  him 
what  day  she  was  expected ;  and  on  Wednesday,  not  only 
he,  but  her  grandmother  also,  who  seldom  left  home,  came 
to  spend  a  week  with  us.  I  was  not  in  the  house  when 
they  arrived,  and  when  I  came  in,  Harriet  met  me  at  the 
door  before  I  had  seen  them,  and  cried  out,  "  Oh,  Aunt 
Kitty  !  grandpapa's  come,  and  grandmamma  too  ;  and  only 
think  what  they  have  brought  me^-dear,  pretty  pony — as 
pretty  as  ever,  with  another  beautiful  new  saddle  and  bri 
dle.  Is  it  not  good  in  them,  and  am  I  not  a  happy  girl  ?" 

Now  my  little  readers  must  not  suppose  that  Mr.  Ar- 
mand  had  only  made  Harriet  believe  that  pony  was  sold, 
while  he  really  kept  him  for  her.  Oh  no !  Mr.  Armand 
always  told  just  the  truth,  and  pony  was  sold — really  and 
truly  sold — to  the  gentleman  he  had  spoken  of,  who  had 
bought  him  for  his  son.  .  This  boy  was  gone  to  a  school  at 
a  distance  from  his  home,  and  besides,  he  was  now  so  good 
a  rider  that  his  father  thought  he  might  have  a  larger  horse 
when  he  came  back,  so  he  was  not  unwilling  to  let  Mr. 
Armand  have  pony  again,  when  he  expressed  a  wish  for 
him. 

Harriet  was  indeed  a  happy  girl  this  Wednesday  even- 


44  BLIND    ALICE. 


ing,  and  still  more  happy  was  she  when  she  set  out,  after 
an  early  breakfast  the  next  morning,  to  ride  on  pony  to 
Mrs.  Scott's.  As  I  started  at  the  same  time  to  walk  there, 
and  she  would  not  leave  me,  she  rode  very  slowly.  If  any 
of  you  can  remember  some  morning  in  Spring,  when  the 
air,  though  cool,  had  not  the  least  frosty  feeling  in  it,  when 
the  grass  was  fresh  and  green,  when  the  trees  had  put  out 
their  first  tender  leaves,  and  the  peach  and  the  pear  and 
the  apple  blossoms  looked  as  if  just  ready  to  open,  to  have 
risen  early  and  walked  or  ridden  out,  while  the  leaves  and 
the  blossoms  were  still  glittering  with  the  night-dew,  you 
will  know  how  delightful  Harriet  and  I  found  it.  We  went 
on,  at  a  brisk  pace  for  me,  and  a  slow  one  for  pony,  till  we 
were  in  sight  of  Mrs.  Scott's  house,  when  Harriet  looked 
so  eager,  that  I  bade  her  hasten  on.  As  I  spoke,  I  cher- 
uped  to  pony,  and  he  went  off  in  a  smart  trot,  which  soon 
brought  Harriet  to  the  gate.  I  had  then  just  entered  the 
clear  space  before  the  house,  and  could  see  and  hear  all 
that  passed.  Alice  was  standing  at  the  open  window, 
looking  healthy  and  happy.  As  pony  stopped,  she  called 
out  to  her  mother,  who  seemed  to  be  in  some  other  room, 
for  she  spoke  loudly,  "  Mother,  mother,  here  is  somebody 
on  horseback — it  must  be  the  doctor." 

"  No,  Alice,  it  is  Harriet,"  cried  my  little  niece,  as  she 
sprang  from  her  pony,  without  much  of  the  caution  which 
she  had  promised  her  grandfather  always  to  use  in  getting 
down. 

"  Oh  !  it  is  Harriet,"  exclaimed  Alice,  clapping  her 
hands  joyfully  together,  and  then  putting  them  out  to  feel 
her  way  to  the  door.  Mrs.  Scott  came  from  the  next  room, 
and  taking  her  hand,  led  her  to  meet  us.  The  little  girls 
were  in  each  other's  arms  in  a  moment,  and  any  one  who 
had  looked  at  Alice's  happy  face,  and  her  eyes  bright  with 
tender  and  glad  feelings,  would  never  have  believed  they 
saw  a  blind  girl.  Harriet  told  of  the  beautiful  pony  her 
grandpapa  had  brought  her  the  evening  before,  and  Alice 
passed  her  hands  over  him  to  feel  how  small  he  was  and 
how  sleek  and  glossy  his  sides  were,  and  promised  that  she 
would  sometimes  mount  him  and  walk  him  over  to  my 
house  with  Harriet  at  her  side.  Then  they  went  into  the 
flower-garden,  and  Alice  exclaimed,  "  Oh,  Harriet !  how 
nicely  you  have  weeded  my  beds  and  trimmed  my  flowers." 


BLIND    ALICE.  45 


"  Betty  told  you  that,"  said  Harriet. 

"  Betty  told  me  who  did  it,  but  I  knew  it  was  done  with 
out  her  telling  me,  for  I  felt  them.  I  did  not  have  to  feel 
my  hyacinths  and  jonquils  to  know  they  were  in  bloom, 
for  I  smelt  them,  and  I  know  exactly  how  they  look.  My 
rose-bushes  too,"  said  she,  putting  her  hand  on  one, 
"  are  in  bud  ;  they  will  soon  be  beautiful.  You  see,  Har 
riet,  I  love  my  garden,  and  can  take  pleasure  in  it,  if  I 
am  blind ; — but  come  into  the  house,  and  let  me  show 
you  the  books  they  have  taken  pains  to  make  for  poor 
blind  people,  and  the  different  kinds  of  work  I  have  learned 
to  do." 

Alice  took  Harriet's  hand,  and  walked  with  a  quick  and 
lively  step  into  the  house.  When  they  had  entered  the 
door,  she  left  Harriet,  and  putting  her  hands  out  to  feel 
that  there  was  nothing  in  her  way,  passed  into  the  next 
room,  and  soon  came  out  again  with  her  arms  full.  There 
were  only  a  few  books — I  was  sorry  to  see  so  few — but 
they  were  so  large  that  she  could  not  well  have  carried  any 
more.  Having  laid  them  on  the  table,  she  opened  one,  and 
we  saw  that  the  letters  were  large,  and  so  raised  from  the 
paper  that  the  blind  could  feel  their  form,  and  thus  distin 
guish  them  as  readily  as  we  can  distinguish  the  letters  in 
ordinary  printing  by  seeing  them.  Alice  soon  showed  us 
how  this  was  done,  for  passing  her  finger  over  the  lines  of 
a  sentence  on  the  page  to  which  she  had  opened,  she  read 
it  as  correctly  as  anybody  could  have  done.  Then  turn 
ing  with  quickness  to  a  box  which  stood  near,  she  said, 
"  Now  see  my  work." — There  were  baskets  she  had  wo 
ven,  purses  and  bags  she  had  knitted,  pincushions  and 
needle-books  she  had  sewed  as  neatly  as  possible.  Full  of 
animation  and  happy  as  Alice  seemed  in  showing  these 
things,»I  am  certain  she  was  not  half  so  happy  in  showing, 
as  Harriet  was  in  seeing  them.  Having  looked  at  them 
myself,  I  went  into  the  garden  to  show  Mrs.  Scott  where 
some  seeds  were  planted.  From  the  garden  I  could  still 
hear  and  see  through  an  open  window  what  was  passing  in 
the  parlor,  and  I  was  too  much  interested  in  the  feelings 
of  these  little  girls  not  to  attend  to  them.  I  soon  saw, 
however,  that  they  did  not  think  themselves  observed  ;  for 
Harriet — who  had  hitherto  spoken  little,  expressing  her 
pleasure  in  looks  more  than  in  words — as  soon  as  they  were 


46  BLIND    ALICE. 


left  alone,  took  Alice's  hand,  and  said,  "How  glad  I  am 
you  can  do  so  much  !" 

"  I  knew  you  would  be  glad,  and  that  made  me  show 
you ;  and  I  wish  I  could  show  them  to  all  the  kind  people 
who  gave  mother  money  to  take  me  to  B.,  for,  you  know, 
if  it  was  not  for  that,  I  could  not  have  learned  to  do  these 
things, — and  you  don't  know,  Harriet,  how  hard  those  first 
dark  weeks  were  to  bear,  and  how  often,  when  I  thought  it 
would  be  always  so,  I  wished  I  was  in  the  grave-yard  with 
my  little  brother  and  sisters ; — that  was  wicked,  I  know, 
Harriet,  but  I  could  not  help  it  then." 

Harriet  stood  with  her  face  turned  from  me,  yet  I  could 
see  by  her  movements  that  she  was  weeping. 

Alice  put  her  arm  around  her,  saying,  "  Don't  cry,  I  am 
»'ery  happy  now." 

"  And  so  am  I,"  said  Harriet,  sobbing,  "  and  I  believe 
that's  what  makes  me  cry." 

"  That's  funny  too,"  said  Alice  laughing,  and  Harriet 
laughed  with  her,  though  the  tears  were  still  on  her  cheeks. 
Then  Alice  told  that  there  was  a  kind  shopkeeper  in  B., 
who  had  promised  to  buy  all  she  made,  and  that  her  mother 
said,  she  got  so  much  money  from  him,  that  she  could  af 
ford  to  keep  a  woman — Alice  hoped  it  would  be  Betty — to 
do  the  hard  work,  and  as  she  would  only  take  in  a  little 
plain  sewing,  she  would  then  be  able  to  sit  with  Alice,  and 
could  sometimes  spare  time  to  read  to  her.  "  And  Har 
riet,"  she  added,  "  I  promised  to  show  you  what  I  had 
bought  with  the  gold  piece  you  gave  me.  I  bought  the 
straw  for  my  first  baskets,  and  the  braids  and  ribands  for 
my  first  purses  and  bags,  and  the  pieces  of  silk  and  velvet  for 
my  first  pincushions  and  needle-books ;  so  you  see  how 
much  it  helped  me,"  and  she  kissed  Harriet,  little  knowing 
how  much  more  she  owed  to  her. 

And  now,  if  any  of  my  little  readers  have  thought  that 
Harriet  made  a  foolish  choice,  when  she  gave  up  her  pony 
to  help  her  friend,  they  will,  I  am  sure,  change  their  minds 
when  they  remember  what  a  sad  house  this  was  at  the  time 
that  Alice  first  became  blind,  and  think  that  now,  as  Har 
riet  looked  at  Mrs.  Scott's  contented  and  Alice's  cheerful 
face,  and  saw  how  much  her  friend  could  do  and  could  en 
joy,  and  heard  that  by  her  pleasant  employments  she  could 
not  only  support  herself  comfortably,  but  help  her  mother 


BLIND    ALICE.  47 


too,  she  could  say  to  herself — "  This  is  my  work — it  is  I 
who  have  made  them  so  happy."  Who  would  not  have  given 
pony  for  such  a  feeling,  even  though  they  had  never  got 
him  back  again  ? 

When  we  were  going  away,  Alice  very  modestly  gave 
me  a  beautiful  work-basket,  a  very  neat  needle-book,  and 
pincushion,  all  of  her  own  make.  For  Harriet  she  had 
made  a  very  pretty  bag,  and  hearing  that  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Armand  were  with  us,  she  selected  a  very  handsome  purse 
and  needle-book,  and  requested  Harriet  to  present  them 
to  her  grandfather  and  grandmother,  as  the  offerings  of  a 
blind  girl. 

And  now,  my  young  friends,  I  have  little  more  to  tell 
you  of  Alice.  If  you  could  visit  her,  you  would  find  her 
sometimes  employed  in  making  those  tasteful  and  pretty 
things,  by  the  sale  of  which  she  aids  in  supporting  her  mo 
ther  and  herself — sometimes  in  her  garden,  feeling  for  the 
weeds  and  pulling  them  away  from  her  plants,  or  tying 
up  her  vines,  or  cutting  flowers  to  dress  their  pleasant  little 
parlor — sometimes  walking,  leaning  on  her  mother's  arm, 
or  on  that  of  some  young  companion, — and  though  you 
may  see  her  look  a  little  sad  when  her  friends  speak  of  a 
beautiful  flower,  or,  admire  a  fine  sunset,  you  will  oftener 
hear  her  sweet  voice  in  cheerful  talk,  or  merry  laugh,  or 
singing  some  pleasant  hymn,  expressive  of  her  gratitude 
to  God  for  His  goodness  to  her.  And  when  you  see  and 
hear  all  this,  you  will,  I  hope,  not  envy  Harriet,  for  that 
would  be  a  wrong  feeling,  but  watch  every  opportunity  of 
going  and  doing  like  her. 

As  this  has  been  a  very  long  story,  and  I  do  not  wish  to 
tire  you,  I  will  now  bid  you  good-by,  hoping  you  will  soon 
wish  to  hear  from  me  again.  Whenever  you  do,  I  shall 
know  it,  and  shall  be  quite  ready  to  have  another  talk  with 
you. 


THE  END. 


JESSIE  GRAHAM: 


FRIENDS  DEAR,  BUT  TRUTH  DEARER. 


JESSIE    GRAHAM, 


CHAPTER  I. 

SPRING MRS.  GRAHAM. 

SPRING  is  here.  The  sun  is  shining  brightly,  and  the 
air  is  warm,  and  the  breeze  is  scented  with  the  blossoms 
of  the  apple  and  the  pear.  The  trees  whose  branches 
have  been  bare  all  winter,  except  when  the  snow  wrapped 
them  in  a  white  mantle,  have  now  put  on  a  dress  of  the 
lightest  and  liveliest  green.  The  gardens,  too,  are  begin 
ning  to  look  gayly.  There  is  in  my  garden  one  bed  which 
is  especially  bright.  This  is  Harriet's.  Here  she  digs 
and  plants  and  manages  all  in  her  own  way,  and  here,  at 
this  season,  she  and  her  little  friends  may  be  often  seen 
with  heads  bent  down  to  the  ground,  searching  for  the  first 
appearance  of  a  crocus  or  a  hyacinth.  If  one  is  seen,  a 
joyful  clapping  of  hands  and  a  general  call  for  Aunt  Kitty 
announces  the  discovery. 

Doubtless  all  my  little  readers  have  noticed  the  changes 
which  this  season  brings.  How  pleasant  is  the  first  walk 
which  you  can  take  without  cloaks  or  shawls !  And  the 
first  violet  or  buttercup  which  is  found, — we  never  think 
any  other  half  so  pretty.  And  the  brooks  which  have  been 
frozen  up  all  winter,  now  prattle  away  over  the  stones,  as 
noisily  as  little  girls  who  have  just  got  out  from  a  school- 
room  where  they  have  been  obliged  to  be  very  still  for  two 
or  three  hours.  And  the  little  birds  which  have  spent  their 
winter  in  a  southern  climate,  sing  as  merrily  as  if  they 
were  glad  to  get  back  again  to  their  old  homes,  or  as  if,  as 
Jessie  Graham  says  her  grandmother  told  her,  they  were 
thanking  God  for  giving  them  such  pleasant  weather.  I 
wish  all  little  girls  would  remember  this,  and  imitate  the 


52  JESSIE    GRAHAM. 


birds, — thanking  their  Heavenly  Father  for  his  goodness  to 
them,  not  only  in  words  when  they  kneel  down  to  say  their 
prayers,  but  in  bright  looks  and  cheerful  tones  through  the 
whole  day. 

Jessie  Graham  is  a  very  clever  little  girl,  and  very  like 
a  bird  herself  as  she  goes  singing  and  jumping  about  when 
she  is  out  of  doors,  though  at  home  she  is  the  most  quiet, 
orderly,  housewifely  little  thing  you  can  imagine.  Her 
grandmother,  of  whom  I  have  just  spoken,  is  a  Scotchwo 
man.  She  is  a  widow,  her  husband  having  died  soon  after 
they  came  to  this  country,  and  when  her  only  child,  Jes 
sie's  father,  was  still  a  little  boy.  Mrs.  Graham  seemed 
to  have  nothing  to  live  on  but  what  she  could  make  by  her 
own  spinning  and  knitting,  her  gardening  and  poultry  yard. 
Yet  she  never  asked  alms,  or  even  received  them  when  of 
fered,  saying  to  those  who  would  have  given  them,  "  I  am 
thankful  to  God  for  showing  me  that  when  the  time  of 
need  comes  I  shall  have  such  kind  friends,  but  still  more 
thankful  to  Him  that  it  has  not  come  yet."  Her  garden 
was  small,  but  in  it  were  often  the  earliest  and  best  vege 
tables  that  were  to  be  seen  for  miles  around.  Some  of  these 
she  would  send  by  little  Donald  to  the  market  of  a  neigh 
boring  town.  Donald  too  had  his  bed  of  flowers,  from 
which  he  was  sometimes  able  to  sell  slips  of  roses  or  a  few 
choice  bulbous  roots.  Seeds  and  slips  and  roots  to  plant 
were  given  him  by  my  brother's  gardener,  who  had  em 
ployed  the  lad,  and  had,  as  he  said,  "  taken  a  liking"  to 
him,  because  he  had  found  him  honest,  industrious,  and  in 
telligent.  With  his  instructions,  Donald  became  a  capital 
gardener,  and  when  he  afterwards  removed  to  the  city, 
was  employed  by  my  brother  in  his  place.  With  the  wa 
ges  which  he  thus  received,  Donald  was  able  to  add  to  his 
garden,  till  with  some  work  from  himself  and  constant 
watchfulness  from  his  mother,  it  became  quite  profitable. 
He  enlarged  their  cottage,  too,  so  that  when  he  brought 
home  a  wife  there  was  room  enough  for  her  without  taking 
any  thing  from  his  mother's  comfort.  His  wife  was  a 
good-tempered  and  kind-hearted  young  woman  whom  he 
had  known  from  a  boy.  They  have  six  children,  of  whom 
Jessie  is  the  eldest.  She  is  named  after  her  grandmother; 
and  as  she  is  almost  always  at  her  side,  has  learned  many 
useful  things  from  her  besides  imitating  the  birds  in  keep- 


JESSIE    GRAHAM.  53 


ing  a  thankful  and  a  cheerful  heart.  She  is  constantly  busy, 
— sometimes  helping  her  grandmother  in  her  housekeep 
ing,  or  counting  her  eggs,  or  feeding  her  chickens  for  her, 
— sometimes  sewing  beside  her  mother,  or  taking  care  of 
her  young  brothers  and  sisters, — sometimes — and  I  think  this 
is  what  Jessie  likes  best — running  after  her  father,  and  by 
his  direction  weeding  a  bed  or  tying  up  a  branch,  picking 
the  strawberries  or  making  up  into  bouquets  the  flowers 
which  he  is  to  take  to  market.  She  has  the  family  taste 
for  gardening,  and  has  already  learned  from  her  father  a 
great  deal  more  about  plants  than  their  names.  Harriet 
goes  to  her  always  for  instruction  about  the  management 
of  her  flowers,  and  if  a  friend  sends  me  a  rare  plant,  is 
never  quite  satisfied  till  Jessie  has  approved  the  soil  in 
which  it  is  placed.  It  is  from  Jessie  that  I  learn,  in  the 
spring,  where  the  most  beautiful  wild-flowers  are  to  be 
found. 

A  stroll  in  the  woods  after  these  wild-flowers  is  one  of 
the  greatest  treats  I  can  offer  to  my  young  favorites ;  and 
when,  about  a  year  ago,  I  sent  to  several  of  them  to  come 
to  my  house  on  a  fine,  bright  morning,  prepared  for  one  of 
these  rambles,  with  thick  shoes  which  would  keep  their 
feet  dry  if  we  went  into  low  or  damp  places,  and  little  bas 
kets  in  which  to  put  their  flowers,  I  was  very  sure  there 
was  not  one  who  would  disappoint  me.  They  all  came, 
and  Jessie  the  earliest  and  the  gayest  among  them.  She 
had  brought  her  father's  trowel  to  take  up  the  roots,  and 
away  we  all  went, — the  little  ones  talking  as  fast  and 
laughing  as  loud  as  they  could,  and  Aunt  Kitty  listening, 
as  much  pleased  as  any  of  them.  Away  we  went, — not 
by  the  road,  but  through  the  woods, — now  moving  swiftly 
and  pleasantly  along  under  the  high  trees,  with  the  sun 
light  falling  only  here  and  there  in  patches  on  our  path, — 
then  suddenly  hedged  up  by  the  tangled  brushwood,  and 
obliged  to  climb  or  jump  over,  or  to  creep  through,  as  some 
of  the  smallest  of  the  party  managed  to  do, — the  children 
now  filling  their  baskets  with  buttercups,  then  throwing 
them  all  away  because  they  had  found  a  piece  of  ground 
covered  with  violets.  At  last,  when  the  baskets  were  filled 
with  the  roots  of  violets  and  wood-geraniums,  and  each  one 
had  gathered  branches  of  the  wild-rose  and  clusters  of  the 
rich  and  graceful  columbine,  Aunt  Kitty  remembering  that 

5* 


54  JESSIE    GRAHAM. 


they  had  yet  to  walk  home,  gave  the  signal  to  return,  and 
half  unwillingly  it  was  obeyed.  After  leaving  the  wood,  we 
followed  a  road  which  enabled  me  to  leave  my  young  com 
panions  at  their  different  homes  before  I  went  on  to  mine. 
Mr.  Graham's  was  the  last  house  on  our  way,  and  there  Har 
riet  and  Mary  Mackay  and  I  stopped  with  Jessie,  as  I  saw 
her  father  was  at  home  and  wanted  to  speak  to  him  about 
some  seeds.  Old  Mrs.  Graham  was  seated  in  the  low, 
shaded  porch,  knitting,  and  there  I  left  the  children  show 
ing  her  their  treasures,  while  I  stepped  into  the  garden 
where  Mr.  Graham  was  at  work.  Having  finished  my 
talk  with  him  I  went  into  the  house  again.  The  children 
were  still  in  the  porch ;  and  as  I  entered  the  parlor  that 
opened  on  it,  I  heard  Mary  Mackay 's  earnest  tone  wish 
ing  that  she  could  walk  in  the  woods  and  pick  flowers 
every  day. 

"  Why,  Mary !"  said  Harriet,  "  what  then  would  be 
come  of  your  books  and  Miss  Bennett  ?" — this  was  the 
name  of  Mary's  governess. 

"I  would  not  care  what  became  of  them,"  said  Mary, 
hastily,  then  added :  "  Oh  yes,  I  would  care  what  became 
of  Miss  Bennett, — but  as  for  the  books — " 

"  Send  them  to  me,  Mary,"  said  Jessie,  "  send  them  to 
me,  if  you  are  tired  of  them,  and  send  Miss  Bennett  with 
them." 

"  Why,  Jessie,  do  you  want  to  study  lessons  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  about  the  studying,  Mary,  how  I  should 
like  that, — but  I  would  be  willing  to  try,  rather  than  be  a 
poor  ignorant  girl  without  any  schooling,  as  Nancy  Orme 
called  me  the  other  day." 

I  saw  old  Mrs.  Graham  turn  quickly  round  at  this,  and 
heard  her  ask  Jessie,  "  And  what  did  you  say  to  Nancy 
Orme  ?" 

"  Nothing,  grandmother, — what  could  I  say  to  her  ?  It 
is  the  truth,  you  know." 

"  It  is  not  the  truth,"  said  Mrs.  Graham,  "  and  you  are  a 
silly  child  to  say  so." 

"  Why,  grandmother,  what  schooling  have  I  ever  had  ? 
You  have  taught  me  to  read,  and  father  has  begun  to  teach 
me  to  write,  and  that  is  all  I  know  or  am  like  to  know." 

"  You  are  a  silly  child,  Jessie,  as  I  said  before.  You 
have  had  the  schooling  which  is  better  for  little  Jessie 


JESSIE    GRAHAM.  55 

Graham,  the  gardener's  daughter,  than  any  that  Miss  Ben 
nett  and  her  books  could  give." 

Mary,  who  really  loved  Miss  Bennett,  colored  up,  and 
Mrs.  Graham  said  to  her,  "  Do  not  be  vexed,  my  little  lady, 
for  I  mean  no  offence.  Miss  Mary  Mackay,  who  is  to  be  a 
young  lady,  and  must  talk  to  ladies  and  gentlemen,  cannot 
do  without  books  and  Miss  Bennett  to  explain  them.  And 
I  do  not  mean  to  say  that  book-learning  hurts  anybody,  but 
only  that  Jessie,  and  poor  little  folks  like  Jessie,  can  do 
without  it,  and  yet  that  they  must  not  call  themselves  with 
out  schooling ;  for  what  schooling  they  really  want,  God 
takes  care  that  they  may  have." 

The  girls  looked  puzzled,  and  as  I  had  become  quite  in 
terested  in  what  the  old  woman  was  saying,  I  was  not  sorry 
when  my  inquisitive  little  niece,  Mary,  exclaimed,  "  Pray, 
Mrs.  Graham,  tell  me  what  you  mean,  for  I  cannot  see 
what  schooling  little  girls  have  who  do  not  learn  out  of 
books." 

"  Well,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Graham,  putting  down  her 
knitting,  taking  off  her  spectacles,  and  looking  very  thought 
ful,  "  I  do  not  know  whether  I  can  tell  you  just  what  I 
mean,  so  that  you  can  understand  me,  but  I  will  try.  I 
think  God  means  that  every  father  and  mother  shall  be 
teachers  to  their  own  children,  or  if  the  father  and  mother 
are  dead,  there  is  almost  always  some  friend  who  is  bound 
to  take  their  place,  and  then  he  spreads  out  books  on  every 
side  of  them,  so  that  they  are  almost  obliged  to  read,  unless 
they  wilfully  shut  their  eyes ; — for  if  they  look  up,  there 
is  the  sun  in  the  day  and  the  moon  and  stars  at  night,  and 
though  they  cannot  tell,  as  I  am  told  some  great  scholars 
can  do,  how  far  off  they  are,  and  what  the  stars  are  named, 
they  can  see  how  much  good  they  do  to  us,  lighting  and 
warming  us,  and  dividing  the  year  into  seasons,  which, 
everybody  who  knows  any  thing  of  gardening  knows,  is  a 
great  good,  and  making  day  and  night.  They  can  learn 
out  of  this  book,  too,  a  great  deal  of  God's  power  and  glory, 
for  he  must  keep  all  these  in  their  places,  and  make  them 
all  come  back  to  us  day  after  day,  and  night  after  night, 
and  year  after  year,  without  ever  failing  once.  Then,  when 
they  look  down  on  the  ground,  there  is  another  beautiful 
book.  They  may  not  be  able  to  call  every  thing  there  by 
its  right  name,  but  they  may  learn  what  is  good  to  eat,  and 


56  JESSIE    GRAHAM. 


what  for  medicine,  and  what  is  only  pretty  to  the  eye, — 
what  soil  each  plant  loves,  and  how  God  has  provided  for 
each  just  what  is  best  for  it.  And  so,  if  they  look  at  the 
birds,  or  the  poultry,  or  the  different  animals,  they  will  find 
each  kind  has  its  own  ways,  and  from  each  one  they  may 
learn  as  many  useful  things  as  from  any  book  that  was 
ever  made.  Now,  my  dear  young  ladies,  this  is  the 
schooling  which  God  provides  for  us  all,  and  though,  as  I 
said  before,  learning  from  books  is  very  good,  yet  those  who 
cannot  get  it  need  not  be  altogether  ignorant,  and  of  the 
two,  maybe  God's  schooling  is  best  for  poor  people." 

Though  I  was  very  much  pleased  with  what  Mrs. 
Graham  said,  I  was  afraid  my  little  girls  would  begin  to 
think  very  slightingly  of  books,  so  I  stepped  out,  and  telling 
them  that  it  was  time  to  go  home,  they  gathered  up  their 
flowers,  and  bidding  Mrs.  Graham  and  Jessie  good-morning, 
we  set  out.  I  waited  a  while,  hoping  that,  as  they  did  not 
know  I  had  overheard  Mrs.  Graham,  they  would  speak  to 
me  of  what  she  had  said.  And  so  they  did  ;  for  I  had  not 
waited  long,  when  Mary  said,  "  Aunt  Kitty,  do  you  not 
think  Mrs.  Graham  is  a  very  sensible  woman  ?" 

"  Yes,  my  dear,"  I  replied,  "  I  do  think  she  is  a  very 
sensible  woman." 

"  I  wish  you  could  have  heard  her,  Aunt  Kitty,  talking 
about  Jessie's  schooling — I  liked  what  she  said  so  much." 

"And  what  did  she  say,  Mary  ?" 

"  Oh,  Aunt  Kitty,  I  cannot  remember  half — but  she  said 
little  girls  need  not  study  books." 

"  Not  all  little  girls,  Mary,"  said  Harriet,  interrupting 
her. 

"  Well,  Harriet,  not  all  little  girls, — but  she  said  that 
little  girls  who  could  not  study  books,  might  still  have 
schooling, — for  God  gave  them  teachers,  and  then  they 
might  look  at  the  stars,  and  the  flowers,  and  the  birds,  and 
all  the  animals,  and  learn,  Aunt  Kitty,  just  as  well  as  we 
do  out  of  books,  and  I  am  sure  it  must  be  a  much  pleasanter 
way  of  learning." 

"But  how  many  little  girls  are  there,  Mary,  do  you 
think,  who,  if  they  had  never  studied  books  or  been  di 
rected  by  such  sensible  teachers  as  Mrs.  Graham  herself, 
would  look  at  the  stars,  and  the  flowers,  and  the  birds,  and 
learn  from  them  all  which  they  can  teach  ?  Unless  we 


JESSIE  GRAHAM.  57 


see  something  more  in  these  than  their  bright  light,  their 
pretty  colors,  or  their  gay  plumage,  they  will  teach  us 
little,  and  it  is  generally  from  books  or  from  some  person 
who  has  had  what  Mrs.  Graham  calls  book-learning,  that 
we  learn  to  look  deeper." 

"  How  did  Mrs.  Graham  come  to  know  so  much  about 
them  then,  Aunt  Kitty,  for  I  do  not  think  she  reads  many 
books  ?" 

"  Mrs.  Graham,  my  dear  Mary,  has  been  accustomed 
to  associate  with  people  much  better  educated  than  herself, 
and  as  she  is  a  very  observing  and  thoughtful  person,  she 
has  lost  no  opportunity  of  learning.  And  now,  Mary,  you 
see  that  book-learning  is  of  more  use  than  you  ever  before 
thought  it,  for  the  person  who  has  it,  may  help  to  open  the 
eyes  of  many  who  have  it  not,  to  read  what  God  has  written 
for  us  all  in  the  heavens  and  the  earth." 


CHAPTER    II. 

THE   SCHOOL. 

THE  next  morning  before  Harriet  and  I  had  breakfasted, 
Mary  came  running  in,  her  cheeks  glowing  and  eyes 
sparkling  with  pleasure,  crying  out  even  before  she  had 
said  good-morning,  "  Aunt  Kitty,  Jessie  is  to  go  to  school 
with  me  and  study  lessons, — she  is  to  begin  to-day,  and  I 
am  going  to  tell  her  to  get  ready  at  once,  so  I  have  not  a 
minute  to  stay." 

"  Stop,  stop,  my  dear,"  said  I,  seizing  her  hand  as  she 
was  passing  me,  "just  catch  your  breath  and  then  tell  us 
how  all  this  was  arranged." 

"  Oh,  I  told  Miss  Bennett  how  much  Jessie  wanted  to  go 
to  school,  and  she  said  she  might  come  if  my  father  had 
not  any  objection,  and  I  asked  my  father,  and  he  said  he 
had  not  any, — but  I  must  go,  Aunt  Kitty,  indeed  I  must," 
and  breaking  away  from  me,  she  bounded  off. 

She  soon  came  back  bringing  the  smiling  Jessie  with 
her,  and  from  that  day  Jessie  might  be  seen  every  morn- 


} 

58  JESSIE  GRAHAM. 


ing  about  nine  o'clock  going  to  her  school.  She  spent  only 
two  hours  there  each  day,  but  as  she  really  wished  to  learn, 
she  improved  very  much,  and  Miss  Bennett  said,  she  repaid 
her  for  all  trouble  in  teaching  her,  by  her  good  example  to 
our  good-humored  but  wild  little  Mary.  Jessie  seemed  to 
think  she  could  never  say  or  do  enough  to  thank  Mary  for 
inducing  Miss  Bennett  to  give  her  lessons,  and  though  Mary 
loved  Jessie,  and  would  never  let  any  one  find  the  least 
fault  with  her  without  a  warm  defence,  I  sometimes  feared 
that  Jessie's  perfect  submission  to  her  will  in  all  things 
would  do  her  harm — that  she  would  become  quite  a  little 
despot.  But  a  circumstance  which  happened  in  their  school 
a  short  time  after  Jessie's  lessons  with  Miss  Bennett  began, 
taught  us  that  there  was  one  thing  Jessie  loved  better  even 
than  she  loved  Mary.  I  will  relate  the  circumstance,  and 
you  will  find  out  what  that  one  thing  was. 

Mary's  father  had  a  fine  flock  of  sheep,  and  one  morn 
ing  as  Mary  stood  by  him  while  he  counted  them,  watch 
ing  the  lambs  frisking  from  side  to  side,  Jessie  came  from 
the  house  to  tell  her  that  Miss  Bennett  had  been  waiting 
some  time  for  her. 

"  Stay  just  one  minute,  Jessie,  and  then  I  will  go  back 
with  you,"  said  the  little  idler  ;  "  I  want  papa  to  be  done 
counting,  that  I  may  beg  him  for  a  little  lamb— I  want  a 
pet  lamb.  See  there,  Jessie — that  one  that  is  running  along 
so  fast,  and  then  stops  to  wait  for  the  others,  is  not  it  a 
beauty  ?  Oh  !  do,  papa,  give  it  to  me,"  said  she,  as  her 
father  counted  the  thirtieth  sheep,  for  she  knew  that  this 
was  the  full  number. 

"  Give  you  what,  my  child  ?"  asked  her  father,  who  had 
not  been  paying  any  attention  to  her. 

"  That  pretty  lamb,  papa — make  haste  to  say  yes,  for 
there  is  Miss  Bennett's  bell  ringing  for  the  third  time.  Stop, 
Jessie,"  said  the  little  despot,  catching  hold  of  her  as  she 
would  have  run  in,  "  you  shall  not  go  till  I  am  ready." 

"  I  am  sorry  my  daughter  should  let  any  thing  keep  her 
from  her  lessons.  Besides,  you  are  treating  Miss  Bennett 
with  great  disrespect,  and  here  she  comes  herself  to  see 
what  has  become  of  her  truants." 

As  Mr.  Mackay  spoke,  he  took  Mary's  hand  and  walked 
with  the  children  towards  the  piazza  where  Miss  Bennett 
stood.  He  is  a  very  good-natured  man,  and  makes  such  a 


JESSIE  GRAHAM.  59 


pet  of  his  little  daughter,  that  he  was  quite  ready  to  ex 
cuse  her  ;  so,  as  Miss  Bennett  was  about  to  speak  to  Mary, 
he  said,  "  I  believe,  Miss  Bennett,  I  must  ask  you  to  ex 
cuse  her  want  of  punctuality  to-day,  for  the  fault  was 
partly  mine.  If  I  had  not  been  as  much  engaged  in  count 
ing  my  sheep  as  she  was  in  watching  the  lambs  at  play,  I 
should  have  heard  your  bell  and  sent  her  to  you." 

"  I  do  not  wish  to  punish  the  fault  of  to-day,"  said  Miss 
Bennett,  with  a  smile,  "  but  to  reform  a  habit  persisted  in 
for  many  days.  Can  you  not  aid  me,  sir,  in  devising  some 
mode  by  which  Mary  may  be  reminded  that  her  studies  are 
of  more  importance  than  her  play  ?" 

"  Yes,  she  has  just  been  presenting  a  petition  which  I 
will  not  grant  till  she  can  bring  me  proof  that  she  has  been 
punctual  and  attentive  to  her  studies  for  two  months." 

"  Two  whole  months,  papa  ?"  said  Mary,  looking  quite 
frightened  at  the  length  of  time. 

"  Yes,  my  daughter,  two  whole  months,  and — stay,  where 
is  Jessie  ?"  looking  around  for  her. 

"  Stolen  away,  I  suppose,"  said  Miss  Bennett,  "  for  fear 
of  hearing  Mary  scolded.  We  shall  probably  find  her  in 
the  schoolroom." 

"  Well,  I  will  go  there  with  you,"  said  Mr.  Mackay,  en 
tering  the  house  with  the  wondering  Mary.  On  they  went, 
Miss  Bennett  leading  the  way  to  the  schoolroom,  where, 
as  she  had  conjectured,  they  found  Jessie,  looking  very 
gravely. 

"  Do  not  be  afraid,  Jessie,"  said  Mary,  laughing,  as  she 
entered,  "  Miss  Bennett  has  not  beaten  me.  Papa  is  going 
to  do  something  to  us  both,  I  think,  but  I  do  not  know 
what." 

"  You  shall  soon  hear,"  said  Mr.  Mackay.  "  If  Miss 
Bennett  will  be  so  kind  as  to  give  to  the  one  who  recites 
the  best  lesson  a  card  marked  merit ;  and  to  the  one  who 
is  not  in  her  place  by  the  time  the  bell  has  ceased  ringing, 
a  blank  card,  for  two  months  to  come,  we  will  then  count 
both  kinds  of  tickets :  for  every  blank  card  we  will  take 
away  one  from  the  others,  and  to  the  little  girl  who  has 
most  merit  cards  left,  I  will  give — listen,  Mary — the  pret 
tiest  lamb  in  my  flock." 

"  I  will  gladly  agree  to  perform  my  part  in  the  arrange 
ment,"  said  Miss  Bennett,  "  but  will  add  another  stipula- 


60  JESSIE    GRAHAM. 


tion.  As  I  would  have  my  little  pupils  careful,  as  well  as  stu 
dious  and  attentive,  I  will  make  no  note  of  the  tickets  given 
for  merit,  and  the  girl  who  loses  her  tickets  will  therefore 
suffer  the  consequences." 

"  Do  you  understand  ?"  said  Mr.  Mackay. 

"  Oh  yes,"  said  Mary,  eagerly  clapping  her  hands,  "  and 
I  mean  to  have  the  lamb." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  the  smiling  Jessie — pleased  to  see  her 
friend  so  happy. 

"  Well,"  said  Mr.  Mackay,  as  he  left  the  schoolroom, 
"you  will  begin  to-morrow." 

For  some  time  Miss  Bennett  had  no  blanks  to  give  and 
few  merit  cards,  for  the  girls  were  always  in  their  places 
at  the  proper  time,  and  both  knew  their  lessons  so  perfectly 
that  it  could  not  with  truth  be  said  either  was  best.  After 
some  weeks,  however,  things  fell  into  their  old  course. 
Mary  got  most  blanks,  and  most  merit  cards  too,  for  though 
Jessie  was  both  quick  and  studious,  she  had  less  time  for  stu 
dy  ;  and  what  is  of  more  consequence,  she  had  no  one  at  home 
to  help  her  out  of  difficulties  by  explaining  what  she  did 
not  understand.  Besides,  as  Mary  had  been  much  longer 
at  school  than  her  friend,  the  lessons  which  she  was  going 
over  for  the  second,  or  perhaps  third  time,  were  quite  new 
to  Jessie,  who  felt  her  friend's  advantages  on  this  account 
to  be  so  great  that  she  never  dreamed  there  was  any  prob 
ability  of  receiving  the  prize  herself. 


CHAPTER    III. 

MARY MOHE    GENEROUS    THAN    JUST. 

HARRIET  and  I,  walking  over  one  pleasant  afternoon  to 
my  brother's,  met  Jessie  sauntering  slowly  home,  and  Ma 
ry  with  her.  We  stopped  to  chat  a  while  with  them,  and 
then  Mary,  bidding  Jessie  good-by,  turned  back  with  us. 
While  I  walked  steadily  on,  she  and  Harriet  were  some 
times  by  my  side,  sometimes  running  before  me,  and  some 
times  lingering  far  behind.  As  we  approached  the  house, 


JESSIE    GRAHAM.  61 


we  saw  the  sheep  driven  to  their  pen  for  the  night.  The 
children  were  before  me,  but  near  enough  for  me  to  bear 
Mary  exclaim,  "  Harriet,  there  is  my  lamb — that  is  the 
one  I  mean  to  choose — if  it  does  not  grow  too  large  before 
the  time." 

"  Maybe  you  will  not  have  to  choose  at  all,"  said  Har 
riet,  "  for  Jessie  may  get  it." 

"  Indeed  she  will  not,"  said  Mary. 

"How  do  you  know  that  ?"  asked  Harriet,  " only  one 
month  is  gone.  I  wish  she  may  get  it." 

"  I  do  not  think  that  is  very  kind  of  you,"  said  Mary, 
"  to  wish  that  Jessie  should  get  it  instead  of  me,  when  you 
know  I  want  the  lamb  so  much." 

"  Why,  Mary,"  said  Harriet,  "though  you  may  not  get 
it  just  at  this  particular  time,  you  know  your  father  would 
give  you  one  afterwards  if  you  asked  for  it,  and  poor  Jessie 
may  never  have  another  chance  to  get  one.  Besides,  I 
think  it  will  do  her  a  great  deal  more  good  than  you." 

"  I  do  not  see  how,"  said  Mary,  still  in  a  dissatisfied 
tone. 

"  Why,"  said  Harriet,  "  you  know  she  knits  her  own 
stockings,  and  her  father  has  to  buy  wool — now,  she  could 
have  the  wool  from  her  own  lamb  without  paying  any 
thing  for  it." 

"I  never  thought  of  that,"  said  Mary,  earnestly,  while  I 
could  not  but  smile  at  Harriet's  forethought.  "  But,  Har 
riet,  I  should  like  to  get  the  lamb,"  said  Mary,  after  think 
ing  a  while,  "  and  then  I  could  give  it  to  Jessie,  you  know." 

"But  are  you  sure  Jessie  would  take  it  from  you  ?" 

"  Oh  yes !  I  could  make  her  take  it,"  said  Mary,  confi 
dently. 

"  I  do  not  know  that,"  said  Harriet,  "  if  her  grandmother 
told  her  not ;  and  you  know  Aunt  Kitty  told  us  Mrs.  Gra 
ham  never  would  take  any  thing  for  herself  when  she  was 
very  poor." 

"  Well,"  said  Mary,  in  a  perplexed  tone,  "what  shall  I 
do  ? — for  I  want  her  to  have  it  now  as  much  as  you  do, 
since  you  put  me  in  mind  how  much  good  it  will  do  her. 
Oh  !  I  will  tell  you,  Harriet,  what  I  will  do  ;  I  will  not 
study  at  all,  and  so  I  cannot  get  any  merit  cards,  and  I  will 
stay  out  late,  and  get  all  the  blanks." 

As  I  did  not  quite  approve  of  Mary's  very  ingenious 
6 


62  JESSIE    GRAHAM. 


plan  for  obliging  Jessie,  I  stepped  up  and  said,  "  Do  you 
think  that  would  be  quite  right  to  your  papa  and  Miss 
Bennett,  who  are  trying  by  the  offer  of  this  reward  to  make 
you  more  studious  and  punctual  ?" 

"  Well,  what  shall  I  do,  Aunt  Kitty  ?" 

"  Do  your  best,  my  dear,  to  win  the  reward,  and  let  Jes 
sie  do  the  same.  The  habits  you  are  thus  forming  will  be 
of  far  more  consequence  to  you  than  the  lamb  to  Jessie." 

"  But  I  want  Jessie  to  have  it,"  said  Mary,  whose  gen 
erous  feelings  had  now  been  excited ;  "  besides,  I  do  not 
think  it  is  a  fair  trial,  for  Jessie  has  so  little  time  to  study." 

"  Then,  Mary,  suppose  you  and  Harriet  go  every  day 
and  help  her  in  her  work  at  home,  so  that  she  may  have 
moi'e  time  for  study." 

"  So  we  will,"  said  Mary,  with  great  animation,  "  that 
is  a  real  good  plan ;  and  I  will  tell  you  what,  Aunt  Kitty,! 
will  study  and  get  the  tickets,  since  you  say  I  ought,  but 
before  Miss  Bennett  counts  them,  I  will  make  Jessie  take 
some  of  my  merit  cards,  and  I  will  take  some  of  her  blanks, 
so  as  to  be  sure  that  she  will  have  the  most ;  so,  you  see, 
I  will  have  the  good  habits,  and  she  will  have  the  lamb 
too.  Will  not  that  be  clever  ?" 

"  Very  clever  on  your  part,  Mary,  but  I  hope  you  will 
not  find  it  easy  to  make  Jessie  do  a  thing  which  in  her 
would  be  very  wrong.  Better  lose  the  lamb  than  be  dis 
honest." 

"Dishonest,  Aunt  Kitty  !" 

"  Yes,  Mary,  would  it  not  be  dishonest  in  Jessie  to  get 
the  lamb  by  making  your  father  and  Miss  Bennett  believe 
that  tickets  which  are  in  reality  vours,  have  been  won  by 
her." 

Mary  looked  quite  grave  for  a  minute,  then  brightening 
up,  said,  "  Well,  Harriet,  at  any  rate  it  is  not  wrong  to  help 
Jessie,  so  I  will  come  for  you  to-morrow  morning." 

"Very  well,"  said  Harriet,  "I  will  go  with  you,  and 
when  we  have  done  all  the  work,  I  will  help  Jessie  get  her 
lessons  ;  so,  maybe,  she  may  have  the  most  tickets  with 
out  taking  yours." 

Mary  colored,  and  though  she  said  nothing,  I  could  not 
help  thinking  that  she  would  rather  Jessie  should  get  the 
lamb  by  any  other  means  than  by  having  the  most  tickets. 


JESSIE    GRAHAM.  63 


CHAPTER   IV. 

THE    DISAPPOINTMENT THE    SECRET. 

THE  next  morning  Mary  came  over  quite  early  for  Har 
riet,  and  they  ran  to  Mr.  Graham's  full  of  glee  ;  but  they 
had  been  gone  a  very  little  while,  when  they  came  back 
looking  quite  vexed.  On  my  asking  what  was  the  matter, 
Mary  answered,  "  That  cross  Mr.  Graham  would  not  let 
us  do  any  thing." 

"  Why,  Mary,  I  never  heard  Mr.  Graham  called  cross 
before." 

"  Well,  Aunt  Kitty,  he  was  cross,  for  Jessie  was  very 
glad  to  see  us,  and  wanted  us  to  help  her  pick  strawberries, 
and  he  would  not  let  us  do  it,  but  said  we  would  tread  on 
the  vines, — as  if  we  never  picked  strawberries  before." 

"  Perhaps,  Mary,  you  never  did  pick  them  where  it  was 
so  important  to  be  careful  of  the  vines.  You  know  Mr. 
Graham's  garden  is  his  only  means  of  support.  But  had 
Jessie  nothing  else  to  do  which  you  could  have  done  for 
her  ?" 

"I  do  not  know,"  said  Mary,  "we  were  so  vexed  that 
we  would  not  ask  to  do  any  thing  else." 

"  Do  not  say  we,  Mary,"  said  Harriet,  "  for  I  would  have 
asked  old  Mrs.  Graham  to  let  me  count  the  eggs  and  feed 
the  chickens,  which  Jessie  said  was  all  she  had  to  do  be 
sides  picking  the  strawberries,  before  school,  but  you  were 
so  angry  and  talked  so  loud,  that  I  thought  it  was  better  to 
come  away." 

Mary  looked  very  much  ashamed,  and  hung  her  head,  as 
she  said,  "  Well,  Aunt  Kitty,  it  is  very  hard  when  we  mean 
to  do  good  to  be  scolded  for  it." 

"  And  did  Mr.  Graham  scold  you,  Mary  ?" 

"He  looked  cross  at  us,  Aunt  Kitty,  if  he  did  not  scold." 

"  Mr.  Graham  might  have  looked  not  very  well  pleased, 
at  the  thought  of  having  his  fine  strawberry-plants  tram 
pled,  and  still  have  felt  obliged  by  your  kind  feelings  to 
Jessie.  But  I  fear  that  my  little  niece  must  have  been 


64  JESSIE    GRAHAM. 


thinking  more  of  herself  than  of  Jessie,  more  of  the  credit 
which  Mary  Mackay  deserved,  than  of  the  assistance  she 
was  going  to  give,  or  she  would  not,  because  she  found  one 
service  declined,  have  been  unwilling  to  offer  to  help  her 
friend  in  some  other  way." — As  I  spoke  I  put  my  arm 
around  Mary  and  drew  her  to  me. — "  Was  it  not  so, 
Mary  ?" — she  hid  her  face  on  my  shoulder  and  was  silent, 
— "  Think  of  it,  Mary,  and  tell  me  if  I  am  right." 

In  about  a  minute  Mary  raised  her  head,  and  said  very 
frankly,  "Yes,  Aunt  Kitty,  I  believe  you  are  right;  and 
now,  if  Harriet  will  go  with  me,  I  will  go  back  and  see  if 
we  can  do  any  thing  else  for  Jessie." 

But  Harriet  exclaimed,  "  We  need  not  go,  Mary,  for  here 
is  Jessie  herself;  and  now  we  will  tell  her  what  we  meant 
to  do,  and  if  she  would  like  it,  we  will  go  to-morrow." 

Jessie  was  much  pleased  with  the  kind  intentions  of  her 
young  friends,  and  assured  them  that  they  could  help  her 
very  much,  for  they  could  count  the  eggs,  feed  the  chickens, 
and  put  the  kitchen  pantry  in  order,  all  which  she  gener 
ally  did  before  coming  to  school.  From  this  time  Jessie 
was  able  to  study  more,  and  with  Harriet's  aid,  her  lessons 
were  well  learned.  Still  she  gained  few  merit  cards,  for 
Mary  studied  too,  and  was  very  punctual,  seeming  quite 
in  earnest  about  the  prize,  which  she  nevertheless  declared, 
steadily  and  positively,  would  be  Jessie's.  At  this  decla 
ration  Jessie  only  laughed,  but  Harriet  seemed  quite  puz 
zled,  saying  that  she  knew  by  Mary's  looks  she  had  some 
plan  in  her  head.  And  so  it  proved  she  had.  The  two 
months  which  had  seemed  to  Mary,  when  her  father  first 
named  them,  so  long,  were  ended  at  last.  Two  days  be 
fore  the  tickets  were  to  be  counted  by  Miss  Bennett,  Mary 
begged  Jessie  to  bring  hers  with  her  to  school,  that  she 
might  see  how  many  they  would  each  have  before  they 
were  given  in. 

"  It  is  of  no  use,  Mary,"  said  Jessie,  "  for  I  know  exactly 
how  many  I  have,  and  I  know  you  have  more  than  twice 
as  many  merit  cards." 

"  I  know  I  have  more  than  twice  as  many  blanks,"  said 
Mary,  "  but  that  is  nothing,  Jessie.  I  want  to  see  your 
cards,  and  I  think  you  might  bring  them  when  I  ask  you." 

"  And  so  I  will  bring  them,  Mary,"  said  Jessie ;  and 
when  she  came  the  next  morning  she  brought  a  neat  little 


JESSIE  GRAHAM.  65 


box,  which  she  held  up  to  Mary  as  soon  as  she  came  in 
sight,  calling  out,  "  Here  are  my  cards." 

"  That  is  right,  Jessie,"  said  Mary  ;  "  now  you  must 
leave  them  with  me,  and  to-morrow  morning  they  will  be 
here  ready  for  you." 

"  Well,  Mary,"  said  Jessie,  as  somewhat  reluctantly  she 
gave  them  up,  "take  care  of  them,  because  though  Tcan- 
not  get  the  lamb  I  would  like  Miss  Bennett  to  see  that  I 
have  been  careful  of  my  cards  as  she  wished  us  to  be." 

Mary  promised,  and  put  the  box  very  carefully  into  a 
basket  where  her  own  cards  were  kept. 


CHAPTER    V. 

JESSIE'S  TRUTH. 

ON  the  day  appointed,  Harriet  and  I  went  over  by  Miss 
Bennett's  request,  to  see  the  prize  delivered  to  her  who 
should  be  found  to  deserve  it.  A  lamb  had  been  chosen 
by  Mr.  Mackay,  and  without  telling  Mary  any  thing  of  it, 
he  had  had  a  small  silver  collar  engraved,  "reward  of  merit." 
After  the  lamb  had  been  washed  as  white  as  snow,  this  had 
been  put  on  it,  and  a  blue  riband  tied  to  the  collar  by  which 
the  lamb  might  be  led,  so  that  Jessie,  should  she  win  it, 
would  have  no  difficulty  in  getting  it  home.  As  I  entered 
my  brother's  house,  I  met  Jessie  and  Mary  in  the  piazza. 
Mary  was  talking  very  earnestly,  and  I  heard  her  say, 
"  There  is  your  box,  Jessie.  Don't  open  it  till  you  give  it 
to  papa." 

"  But  I  must  open  it,  Mary.  I  want  to  divide  the  cards, 
so  as  not  to  give  Mr.  Mackay  much  trouble." 

"  Nonsense,  Jessie — what  does  papa  care  for  trouble  ? 
You  must  not  open  it,  I  tell  you.  I  have  counted  the  cards, 
and  you  will  have  the  lamb." 

"  Mary,  how  can  you  laugh  at  me  so  ?  you  know  that  I 
cannot  get  it." 

At  this  moment  Mary  was  called  away  by  her  mother, 
6* 


66  JESSIE  GRAHAM. 


I  had  watched  her  closely,  and  I  thought  I  could  see  some 
roguery  in  the  demure  smile  which  played  around  her 
mouth,  in  spite  of  her  evident  efforts  to  be  serious.  As 
soon  as  she  was  out  of  sight,  Jessie  seated  herself  on  the 
steps  and  took  out  her  tickets.  They  were  already  made 
into  parcels,  and  I  saw  her  turn  her  eyes  with  a  wondering 
look  from  one  to  the  other, — then  she  loosed  the  string  which 
tied  each  parcel  together,  counted  them  rapidly,  and  then, 
dropping  them  into  the  box,  said,  "  What  does  this 
mean  ?" 

I  began  to  be  quite  interested  in  this  little  mystery,  of 
which  I  suspected  Mary  knew  more  than  anybody  else,  so 
when  I  went  into  the  schoolroom,  I  took  my  seat  at  a  win 
dow,  the  sash  of  which  was  raised,  and  which  overlooked 
the  piazza,  and  kept  my  eye  on  Jessie.  I  was  scarcely 
seated  before  Mary  ran  up  to  her.  As  soon  as  she  was 
near  enough  to  see  the  box  opened  and  the  cards  loosed, 
she  cried  out  in  a  vexed  tone,  "  And  so,  Jessie,  you  would 
open  the  box  after  all  ?" 

"  Oh,  Mary  !"  said  Jessie,  "  it  is  the  strangest  thing — my 
blank  cards  are  almost  all  gone,  and  here  are  a  great 
many  more  merit  cards  than  I  had.  Where  can  they  come 
from  ?" 

Mary  seemed  very  much  amused,  and  said,  "  Why,  Jes 
sie,  I  think  a  good  fairy  must  have  put  them  there." 

Jessie  looked  up  into  her  laughing  face  for  a  moment, 
and  then  said,  "  Now,  Mary,  I  know  how  it  came — you  put 
them  there  just  to  tease  me.  Make  haste  and  let  us  get 
them  right  before  they  call  us.  I  ought  to  have  ten  merit 
cards  and  four  blanks,  and  here  are  only  two  blanks  and 
seventeen  merit  cards.  Take  yours,  Mary,  and  give  me 
mine — quick — before  Miss  Bennett  calls  us." 

As  she  spoke,  she  held  out  the  box,  but  Mary  stepped 
back,  saying  very  positively,  "  Indeed,  Jessie,  I  will  not  do 
any  such  thing." 

Jessie  looked  at  her  a  moment,  and  seeing  by  her  coun 
tenance  that  she  was  resolved  not  to  do  it,  turned  round, 
saying,  "  Well,  I  must  go  and  tell  your  father  just  how 
it  is." 

She  went  towards  the  door,  but  before  she  reached  it, 
Mary  caught  her  and  drew  her  back,  saying,  as  she  did  so, 
"  Jessie,  if  you  say  a  word  to  my  father  or  Miss  Bennett 


JESSIE  GRAHAM.  67 


or  anybody  about  it,  I  will  never  play  with  you  again  or 
love  you,  as  long  as  I  live." 

Her  face  was  red,  and  she  spoke  in  a  very  angry  tone. 

"  Oh  !  don't  talk  so,  Mary,"  said  Jessie,  "  please  don't 
talk  so.  You  would  not  have  me  tell  your  father  a  story, 
and  it  would  be  just  like  telling  him  a  story  if  I  gave  him 
your  cards  for  mine." 

"  You  need  not  give  them  to  him,"  said  Mary,  "  I  will 
do  it  myself,  and  Aunt  Kitty  said  it  would  not  be  any  harm 
in  me  to  do  it.  I  told  you  that  you  would  have  the  lamb, 
and  I  am  determined  you  shall  have  it." 

"  But  I  don't  want  it,"  said  Jessie  ;  "  I  hate  the  lamb,  and 
I  don't  want  it." 

"  It  is  very  ungrateful  in  you  to  say  so,  and  I  know  you 
do  it  just  to  vex  me.  I  know  you  cannot  help  wanting  that 
pretty  little  lamb  with  its  silver  collar ;  and  then  it  would 
please  your  father  and  mother  and  grandmother  so  much 
to  see  the  reward  of  merit  on  it." 

"  But  what  good  would  their  being  pleased  do  me  when 
I  knew  I  had  told  a  story  to  get  it?"  said  Jessie  mourn, 
fully. 

"  You  are  very  obstinate,  Jessie,"  said  Mary  ;  "  did  not 
I  tell  you  that  you  need  not  say  a  word,  and  that  I  would 
give  papa  the  cards  myself — so  how  can  you  tell  a  story 
about  -it  ?  Besides,  I  will  tell  him  the  whole  truth  by-and- 
by,  when  I  have  had  my  fun  out." 

"  Will  you,  Mary,  will  you  tell  him  the  whole  truth — 
and  is  it  only  just  for  fun'?" 

"  To  be  sure  it  is,  or  I  would  not  say  so, — so  now,  Jes 
sie,  give  me  the  cards  at  once  like  a  good  girl,  and  I  will 
love  you  so  dearly,"  kissing  her  as  she  spoke,  "  and  just 
go  in  the  schoolroom  quietly,  and  look  as  sober  as  you  can 
while  they  are  counting  them." 

With  a  reluctant  hand  Jessie  gave  up  the  box,  saying, 
"  Remember,  Mary,  it  is  just  for  fun,  and  you  will  tell  your 
father  before  I  go  home." 

"  I  will  tell  him  in  the  right  time,"  said  Mary ;  "  but 
if  you  do  not  make  Jhaste  into  the  schoolroom  we  will 
not  be  there  in  the  right  time,"  and  she  ran  quickly 
and  joyously  in — while  Jessie  followed  more  slowly  and 
timidly. 

Mary  went  straight  to  her  father,  who  sal  with  Miss 


68  JESSIE    GRAHAM. 


Bennett  near  a  table,  and  gave  him  first  a  parcel  contain, 
ing  her  own  cards,  then  handing  him  the  box,  said,  "  Jes 
sie's  are  in  this  box,  papa."  Her  father  took  them,  smi 
lingly,  from  her,  and  she  then  came  and  stood  by  Jessie, 
who  had  placed  herself  not  far  from  me.  The  cards  were 
counted.  In  Mary's  parcel  were  twenty  merit  cards  and 
eight  blanks,  which,  taken  from  the  others,  left  her  only 
twelve.  Jessie,  it  was  found,  had  only  two  blanks  to  be 
taken  from  seventeen  merit  canls  ;  she  could  therefore 
count  fifteen,  and  the  lamb  was  declared  to  be  hers.  I  had 
looked  steadily  upon  her  while  my  brother  and  Miss  Ben 
nett  were  counting,  and  I  saw  that  she  looked  very  pale, 
except  once  when  she  caught  Miss  Bennett's  eye,  and  then 
her  face  became  very  red,  and  her  eyes  filled  with  tears. 
As  my  brother  said,  "  Jessie  has  won  the  prize,"  she 
looked  imploringly  at  Mary  and  whispered,  "  Now,  Mary 
— please,  Mary,  tell  him  now," — but  Mary  turned  away 
and  seemed  not  to  hear  her. 

My  brother  went  into  the  next  room  and  led  in  the  lamb. 

Again  I  heard  Jessie's  pleading  tones,  "  Now,  Mary — 
please,  Mary,  now," — but  Mary  said  nothing. 

The  lamb  was  led  up  to  Jessie,  and  my  brother,  saying 
to  her,  "  Here  is  your  prize,  my  good  little  girl,  which  you 
have  well  deserved,"  would  have  put  the  riband  into  her 
hand,  but  instead  of  taking  it,  she  covered  her  face  with 
her  hands  and  sobbed  out,  "  I  cannot  take  it,  sir — indeed  I 
cannot  take  it,  for  it  is  not  mine,  it  is  Mary's,  and  I  must 
tell  if  she  should  be  ever  so  angry  with  me." 

Mr.  Mackay  looked  around  as  for  some  one  to  ex 
plain  Jessie's  meaning,  but  as  no  one  said  any  thing,  he 
again  addressed  himself  to  Jessie  herself:  "  But,  my  dear, 
why  should  you  not  take  it  ?  Perhaps  you  think,  because 
Mary  had  most  merit  cards,  the  lamb  should  have  been 
hers, — but  you  must  remember,  she  had  so  mahy  more 
blanks  to  be  taken  from  them,  that  they  left  her  with  less 
than  you.  As  for  Mary's  being  angry  with  you,  I  am 
sure  you  need  not  be  afraid  of  that, — Mary  is  not  so  selfish 
and  unjust  as  to  be  angry  with  her  friend  for  doing  better 
than  herself." 

"  Oh  no,  sir !  that  is  not  it — Mary  wanted  me  to  have 
the  lamb,  but — " 

Jessie  stopped,  and  Miss  Bennett  now  came  up  to  Mr. 


JESSIE    GRAHAM.  69 


Mackay  and  said,  "  I  believe  I  can  explain  this.  Jessie 
is  very  properly  grieved  at  having  done  a  very  wrong 
thing.  You  may  remember  that  I  said  I  would  keep  no 
account  of  the  merit  cards  given,  in  order  to  induce  the 
children  to  be  careful,  but  Jessie  seems  to  have  forgotten 
that  I  did  not  say  the  same  of  the  blanks ;  of  these  I  did 
take  note,  and  I  am  grieved  to  find,  on  reference  to  my 
memorandum,  that  two  of  Jessie's  blanks  have  been  added 
to  Mary's." 

Miss  Bennett  spoke  in  a  very  grave  tone,  and  looked  at 
Jessie  very  severely.  She  would  have  said  something 
more,  but  Mary — who,  half  ashamed  and  half  angry,  had 
stood  with  her  eyes  cast  down  and  the  corners  of  her  mouth 
twitching  as  if  she  were  just  ready  to  cry — now  looked  up 
and  interrupted  her  by  exclaiming,  "  You  are  very  wrong 
indeed,  Miss  Bennett,  to  think  Jessie  had  any  thing  to  do 
with  it.  It  was  I  that  did  it,  on  purpose  that  Jessie  might 
have  the  lamb,  and  she  never  knew  a  word  of  it  till  just  as 
we  came  in,  and  then  she  begged  me  to  tell,  and  I  would 
not.  So  there — it  is  all  told  now — and  the  next  time  I  try 
to  give  anybody  any  thing,  it  shall  be  some  one  who  will  be 
more  grateful  for  it  than  Jessie." 

Poor  Jessie !  she  cried  as  if  her  heart  would  break,  and 
tried  to  take  Mary's  hand  while  she  said,  "  Indeed,  indeed, 
Mary,  I  could  not  help  it." 

But  Mary  would  not  be  coaxed — she  withdrew  her  hand 
and  turned  sullenly  away.  Mr.  Mackay  looked  at  her  sor 
rowfully,  then  stooping  down  he  unclasped  the  collar  from 
the  lamb's  neck,  and  tying  the  riband  in  its.  place,  held  it 
to  her  while  he  said,  "  You  have  won  the  prize,  Mary, — 
take  it — but  I  must  take  ofF  the  collar.  I  cannot  give  a 
reward  of  merit  to  a  girl  who  thinks  a  lamb  more  valuable 
than  truth  and  honesty." 

It  was  now  Mary's  turn  to  weep  and  Jessie's  to  defend 
her.  "  Oh  !  Sir,  do  not  blame  Mary — it  was  all  from  kind 
ness  to  me,  sir — indeed  it  was — and  you  know,  sir,  Mary 
would  not  tell  a  story  for  any  thing  in  the  world." 

"  And  yet  Mary  wished  you,  Jessie,  to  tell  a  story,  and 
to  take  what  you  knew  did  not  justly  belong  to  you,  and 
now  is  angry  with  you  because  you  were  not  willing  to  do 
so.  Either  Mary  is  not  very  kind  to  you,  or,  as  I  said  be 
fore,  she  values  more  the  lamb  she  would  have  given  you, 


70  JESSIE    GRAHAM. 


than  the  truth  and  honesty  she  would  have  had  you  give 
up  for  it." 

Jessie  was  silenced  for  a  minute,  and  though  Mary  con 
tinued  to  weep,  it  was  more  gently.  Mr.  Mackay  stood 
before  the  children,  still  holding  the  lamb, — which  Mary 
seemed  as  little  disposed  to  take  as  Jessie, — and  looking 
very  gravely.  At  length  Jessie  raised  her  eyes  to  him  and 
said,  "  I  do  not  think  Mary  is  angry  with  me  because  I 
would  not  take  the  lamb,  sir ;  she  is  only  a  little  vexed  be 
cause  I  did  not  do  as  she  wanted  me  to." 

We  all  smiled  as  Jessie  said  this,  and  Mr.  Mackay  an 
swered,  "  I  believe  you  are  quite  right,  my  dear  little  girl," 
— then,  putting  his  hand  on  Mary's  head,  he  added,  "  My 
daughter,  we  will  leave  you  alone  for  a  little  while,  to 
think  whether  you  are  most  sorry  that  Jessie  Graham  has 
lost  the  prize,  or  that  Mary  Mackay  has  not  had  her  own 
way  altogether." 

He  was  turning  away  when  Mary  spoke,  though  in  so 
low  a  tone  that  no  one  could  hear  her.  Mr.  Mackay,  put 
ting  his  head  down  to  her,  asked  what  she  said,  and  she 
repeated,  "  I  do  not  think  it  was  wrong  in  me  to  want  Jes 
sie  to  get  the  lamb  and  to  give  her  my  cards  that  she  might 
get  it." 

"  Are  you  quite  sure,  Mary,  that  you  did  wish  Jessie  to 
win  the  prize  ?  Do  you  think  you  would  have  been  pleased 
that  she  should  have  got  the  lamb  in  any  other  way  than 
by  your  giving  it  to  her  ?  Still,  however  this  may  be,  the 
wish  to  give  it  was  generous,  and  far  from  thinking  it 
wrong,  I  am  more  pleased  with  it  in  my  daughter,  than 
even  with  her' studiousness  and  punctuality; — but,  was  it 
right  in  you,  when  your  kind  intention  could  not  be  ac 
complished  without  a  very  wrong  action  in  Jessie,  to  wish 
that  she  should  do  it,  and  to  be  angry  with  her  because  she 
would  not  ?  Ought  you  to  have  thought  so  much  more  of 
your  generosity  than  of  Jessie's  truth  ?"  Mr.  Mackay 
waited  a  little  while  for  an  answer,  then  said,  "  Speak, 
Mary — was  this  right  ?" 

While  her  father  had  been  speaking  to  her,  Mary  had 
ceased  to  weep,  though  she  still  kept  her  head  down,  and 
her  face  covered  with  her  hands.  Even  now  she  could  not 
lift  her  eyes,  though  she  raised  her  head  a  little  as  she  said, 
almost  in  a  whisper,  "  No,  papa." 


JESSIE    GRAHAM.  71 


Jessie,  whose  eyes  had  been  fixed  upon  Mary  with  the 
most  earnest,  anxious  look  you  can  imagine,  now  put  her 
arm  quickly  around  her  neck,  exclaiming  in  a  joyful  tone, 
"  Then,  Mary,  you  will  not  be  vexed  with  me  any  more, 
will  you  ?" 

"  No,  Jessie,"  said  Mary,  kissing  her,  "  it  was  very 
wicked  in  me  to  be  vexed  with  you  just  because  you  were 
good." 

"  Now,  my  dear  Mary,"  said  Mr.  Mackay,  "  in  taking 
blame  for  your  own  fault,  and  giving  to  your  friend  the 
credit  she  deserves,  you  are  indeed  generous,  and  I  may- 
now  put  back  the  lamb's  collar — you  merit  the  reward." 

As  he  spoke,  he  kissed  both  the  little  girls.  Mary  sprang 
into  her  father's  arms  and  hid  her  face  on  his  shoulder. 
As  she  did  so,  I  saw  that  there  were  tears  in  her  eyes,  yet 
she  smiled  and  looked  very  happy.  In  a  little  while  she 
looked  up,  and  seeing  Jessie  seated  on  the  floor  playing 
with  the  lamb,  said,  laughing,  "Why,  Jessie,  I  thought 
you  hated  the  lamb." 

"  Not  now,  Mary,"  said  Jessie,  "  I  love  it  now." 

And  now  it  will  be  easy  for  my  little  readers  to  see 
that  the  one  thing  which  Jessie  loved  more  than  Mary  was 
"Truth." 


CHAPTER    VI. 

THE    COW. 

IT  was  but  a  few  weeks  after  this,  that,  as  Harriet  and  I 
were  one  evening  passing  Mr.  Graham's  house,  we  saw  a 
man  tying  a  rope  around  the  neck  of  his  fine  cow,  which 
was  noted  everywhere  for  her  gentleness  and  for  the  quan 
tity  of  milk  she  gave.  In  the  yard,  not  far  from  the  cow, 
stood  Mr.  Graham.  He  was  looking  very  serious,  but  did 
not  say  any  thing.  But  poor  Jessie  ! — her  arm  was  over 
the  cow's  neck  and  her  face  rested  against  her  side,  while 
she  sobbed  so  loudly  that  we  heard  her  before  we  reached 
the  gate.  As  I  did  not  quite  understand  what  was  going 


72  JESSIE    GRAHAM. 


on,  I  hesitated  a  little  about  entering,  but  Mr.  Graham  saw 
me,  and  stepping  up  opened  the  gate.  As  I  went  in,  I  said 
to  him,  "  What  is  the  matter  with  my  friend  Jessie  ?" 

He  tried  to  smile  as  he  replied,  "  Only  parting  with  the 
cow,  ma'am.  It  is  very  foolish  in  her  to  take  on  so  ; — but 
she  has  always  fed  her,  and  so  the  creature  knows  and 
follows  her,  and  Jessie  feels  as  if  she  was  just  like  a 
friend." 

"  But  why  are  you  parting  with  your  cow,  Mr.  Gra 
ham  ?" 

Mr.  Graham  colored  and  turned  a  little  away  from  me 
as  he  said,  "  It  is  not  just  convenient  to  me  to  keep  her  at 
present,  ma'am." 

I  saw  from  his  manner  that  it  would  pain  him  to  have 
me  ask  further  about  his  reasons  for  selling  her.  Sup 
posing  that  the  cow  was  already  sold,  I  asked  who  had 
bought  her. 

"  Nobody  yet,  ma'am,"  said  Mr.  Graham,  "  I  am  only 
sending  her  to  town  to  be  sold." 

"  Then  I  am  very  glad  I  came  here  before  she  went,"  said 
I,  "  for  I  should  like  very  much  to  own  her,  and  I  will  give 
you  gladly  whatever  you  expected  to  get  for  her  in  town." 

Jessie  looked  up  at  this,  and  as  she  saw  her  father  hesi 
tate,  cried  out,  "  Oh  yes !  do,  father,  sell  her  to  Aunt  Kitty, 
and  I  can  see  poor  Mooly  sometimes  ;  and  then  too,  if  you 
are  ever  rich  enough  to  buy  her  back,  I  know  she  will  let 
you  have  her  again." 

"  You  are  a  foolish  thing,"  said  Mr.  Graham,  as  he  put 
his  hand  kindly  on  Jessie  s  head,  for  we  had  walked  to 
gether  to  the  cow — then  turning  to  me,  he  told  me  he  would 
be  very  glad  to  sell  the  cow  to  one  who  he  knew  would  use 
her  well.  The  business  was  soon  arranged.  The  cow 
was  to  be  taken  home  at  once  to  my  house  ;  but  she  need 
not  be  tied,  for  Jessie  would  lead  her  there,  and  there  was 
no  difficulty  in  getting  her  to  follow  Jessie.  Mr.  Graham 
went  along  with  us  too,  to  receive  his  money.  Before  Jes 
sie  left  us  I  begged  her  to  feed  the  cow  for  me. 

"  That  I  will,  ma'am,"  said  the  delighted  girl,  "  and  if 
you  will  let  me,  I  will  come  every  evening  and  give  her 
her  supper,  for  I  am  sure  she  will  like  it  better,  if  she  takes 
it  from  me." 

"  I  shall  be  very  much  obliged  to  you,  Jessie,  and  as 


JESSIE    GRAHAM.  73 


your  friend  Mooly  may  not  be  quite  so  gentle  with  stran 
gers  as  with  you,  if  you  will  come  over  and  keep  her  quiet 
when  she  is  milked  in  the  morning,  you  will  be  doing  me 
a  favor,  and  then  you  can  carry  back  the  cup  of  warm 
milk  which  Harriet  tells  me  your  grandmother  drinks  eve 
ry  morning." 

Jessie  looked  at  me  for  a  moment  with  a  happy  smile, 
and  then  said,  "  Oh,  ma'am  !  how  glad  I  am  that  you 
walked  by  our  house  this  evening.  This  will  be  almost 
as  good  as  having  Mooly  at  home  ourselves." 


CHAPTER   VII. 

SORROW   AND   SYMPATHY. 

I  COULD  not  easily  forget  poor  Jessie's  distress,  and  I 
found  myself  often  thinking  what  could  have  made  Mr. 
Graham  sell  so  good  a  cow.  Surely,  I  said  to  myself,  it 
cannot  be  that  he  is  poorer  than  he  has  been,  and  in  want 
of  money  which  he  could  not  get  in  any  other  way.  I 
knew  that  he  had  had  rheumatism  so  badly  during  the  past 
winter,  that  he  had  not  been  able  to  get  out  to  work  till 
quite  late  in  the  spring ;  but,  notwithstanding  this,  as  the 
seasons  had  been  favorable,  his  garden  did  not  seem  to 
have  suffered  much.  Besides,  his  family  were  so  prudent 
and  industrious,  that  I  thought  they  always  spent  less  in 
the  year  than  he  made,  and  so,  that  he  was  able  every  year 
to  lay  up  some  money  against  worse  times.  Jessie  came 
over  every  morning  to  see  her  friend  Mooly  milked,  and  to 
take  a  mug  of  milk  to  her  grandmother,  which  Harriet 
took  care  should  be  large  enough  to  give  the  children  some 
milk  with  their  breakfasts.  In  the  evening  she  was  al 
ways  ready  to  give  Mooly  her  supper ;  and  as  I  saw  her, 
day  after  day,  come  skipping  and  singing  along,  I  felt  com 
forted  about  her  father's  circumstances,  for  I  was  sure  that 
Jessie  at  least  had  not  heard  of  his  being  in  any  great  dis 
tress  or  difficulty.  One  morning  a  servant  came  to  me  to 
ask  whether  Jessie  should  be  waited  for,  as  it  was,  she 

7 


74  JESSIE    GRAHAM. 


tsaid,  quite  time  the  milking  was  done,  and  Jessie  was  not 
yet  in  sight. 

"  Oh  yes  !  pray,  Aunt  Kitty,  wait,"  said  Harriet,  "  she 
will  be  here  presently,  I  am  sure  she  will — just  wait  five 
minutes." 

As  she  spoke,  she  ran  to  the  window  to  watch  for  Jes 
sie,  and  soon  called  out,  "  Here's  Jessie  ;  but  how  slow  she 
comes!  Do,  Aunt  Kitty,  look! — You  said,  the  other  day, 
Jessie  never  walked,  and  I  am  sure  she  is  walking  now  as 
slowly  as  her  grandmother  could.  Why,  now,  she  has 
stopped  and  turned  around  as  if  she  was  not  coming  at 
all.  Why,  I  do  believe  she  is  crying !  What  can  be  the 
matter  ?" 

She  darted  out  of  the  room  as  she  finished  speaking,  and 
when  I  reached  the  window  through  which  she  had  been 
looking,  she  was  already  standing  beside  Jessie  with  her 
arm  around  her,  talking  to  her.  For  a  long  time  Jessie 
did  not  speak,  but  when  she  did,  she  seemed  very  much  in 
earnest,  while  Harriet  listened  with  an  expression  of  the 
most  eager  interest.  At  length  Jessie's  story,  whatever  it 
was,  was  ended,  and  Harriet  seemed  to  have  comforted 
her,  for  she  wiped  her  eyes,  and  looked  more  cheerful  as 
they  passed  the  window  where  I  stood,  walking  hand  in 
hand  to  the  yard  where  the  cow  and  the  dairywoman  were 
waiting  for  them.  In  a  little  while,  Jessie  passed  by  again 
on  her  way  home.  As  she  dropped  a  courtesy  to  me  and 
wished  me  good-morning,  I  saw  that  her  eyes  were  still 
red  and  her  face  swollen  with  weeping,  though  she  had 
pushed  her  bonnet  entirely  off  her  head,  that  the  cool  breeze 
might  take  away  the  inflammation.  Jessie  was  such  a 
merry-hearted  child  that  I  felt  it  could  be  no  trifling  thing 
which  had  distressed  her  so  much ;  yet  I  would  not  ask 
Harriet  any  thing  about  it,  because  I  was  sure  she  would 
speak  of  it  herself,  if  Jessie  had  not  made  her  promise  to 
keep  it  secret,  and  if  she  had,  I  would  have  been  sorry 
that  she  should  do  any  thing  so  dishonorable  as  to  mention 
it.  There  was  a  servant  in  the  room  when  she  came  in, 
and  I  saw  that  Harriet  was  quite  restless  during  the  few 
minutes  that  she  stayed.  As  soon  as  she  went  out,  Har 
riet  closed  the  door  after  her  and  began,  "  Oh,  Aunt  Kitty ! 
I  am  so  sorry.  Jessie  is  going  away,  and  Mr.  Graham 
and  all — going  to  some  far-off  place  in  the  West.  And 


JESSIE    GRAHAM.  75 


Jessie  says  her  father  has  lost  a  great  deal  of  money,  and 
that  he  is  so  poor  he  cannot  pay  for  his  place,  and  so  they  • 
are  going  to  take  it  from  him.     Jessie  heard  Mr.  Butler 
talking  to  him   about  it  this  morning,  and  she  says  Mr. 
Butler—" 

"  Stop,  stop,  Harriet,  if  Jessie  only  overheard  a  conver 
sation  between  her  father  and  Mr.  Butler  she  was  very 
wrong  to  repeat  it  to  you,  and  the  wrong  must  not  go 
any  further — you  must  not  tell  it  even  to  me." 

"  Oh,  but,  Aunt  Kitty,  Mr.  Graham  told  Jessie  he  did 
not  mind  her  telling  anybody  except  her  grandmother. 
He  does  not  want  old  Mrs.  Graham  to  know  it  yet ;  I  do 
not  know  why.  It  was  Mr.  Graham's  talking  about  his 
mother  that  made  Mr.  Butler  tell  him,  Jessie  says,  that,  if 
he  thought  he  would  be  able  to  pay  him  next  year,  he 
would  wait  for  his  money  till  then  ;  but  Mr.  Graham  said 
something  about  a  bank  breaking  down — I  did  not  quite 
understand  that,  Aunt  Kitty,— but  at  any  rate,  all  his  mo- 
ney  was  in  it,  and  he  told  Mr.  Butler  that  he  never  expect 
ed  to  be  able  to  pay  him,  and  that  he  must  take  the  house 
back.  Mr.  Butler  said  that  he  would  try  to  get  some  one 
to  buy  it  who  would  not  want  it  till  next  year,  so  that  Mr. 
Graham  need  not  go  till  then ;  but  then,  Aunt  Kitty;  they 
will  have  to  go." 

"  I  am  very  sorry-  for  it,  Harriet,  very  sorry  indeed." 

"  I  knew  you  would  be,  Aunt  Kitty,  and  I  told  Jessie  so, 
and  that  you  would  try  to  think  of  something  to  help  her 
father,  and  maybe  they  would  not  have  to  go  at  all." 

Harriet  was  silent  and  looked  earnestly  in  my  face  for  a 
minute,  then  finding  I  did  not  answer  her,  she  said,  softly, 
"  Will  you  not,  Aunt  Kitty,  will  you  not  help  Mr.  Gra 
ham?"' 

"  Most  gladly,  Harriet,  if  I  can,  but  I  do  not  yet  see 
how.  You  know  I  am  not  very  rich  just  now  myself." 

Harriet  looked  quite  discouraged  and  thoughtful  for  a 
while,  then  said,  "  Could  not  Uncle  Mackay  help  him  ?" 

"  You  know  that  your  uncle  is  about  to  travel  on  account 
of  your  aunt's  health,  and  you  may  have  heard  him  com 
plain  of  being  kept  here  much  longer  than  he  wished,  in 
consequence  of  the  difficulty  of  getting  the  money  which  is 
necessary  for  himself.  Besides,  Harriet,"  said  I,  interrupt 
ing  her  as  she  was  about  to  speak,  "  I  feel  sure,  from  what 


76  JESSIE    GRAHAM. 


I  know  of  Mr.  Graham,  that  he  would  not  take  the  money 
he  needs,  as  a  gift  from  anybody,  while  he  is  well  and 
strong,  and  only  to  lend  it  to  him  would  be  doing  him  little 
service,  since  it  would  be  as  difficult  to  pay  it  back  as  to 
pay  for  his  house." 

Harriet  looked  quite  desponding,  and  said,  "  Poor  Jessie, 
she  will  have  to  go,  then." 

.  "  There  is  but  one  way,  Harriet,  which  I  now  think  of 
to  prevent  it.  I  have  heard  Mr.  Graham  say  that  he  had 
more  leisure  than  he  liked,  and  that  he  could  very  well  at 
tend  to  another  garden  besides  his  own  and  your  Uncle 
Mackay's.  Now,  if  we  could  get  more  work  and  more 
wages  for  him,  he  could,  perhaps,  hire  a  house  for  the 
present,  and  might  in  time  again  lay  up  money  enough  to 
buy." 

"  That's  it,  Aunt  Kitty-^that's  it — that  is  the  very  be?t 
plan,"  said  Harriet,  eagerly  ;  "do  let  me  run  over  and  teH 
Jessie  about  it." 

"  Wait,  Harriet,  till  we  see  some  prospect  of  succeeding 
in  it,  before  we  say  any  thing  to  Jessie.  After  breakfast 
we  will  go  over  to  your  uncle's,  and  see  if  we  can  learn 
any  thing  from  him  likely  to  profit  Mr.  Graham."  . 

Before  I  had  left  the  breakfast  table,  Harriet  called  out, 
"Aunt  Kitty,  here  are  Uncle  Mackay  and  Mr.  Graham 
coming  this  way."  When  they  reached  my  gate,  how. 
ever,  Mr.  Graham  passed  on  towards  his  own  house,  and 
my  brother  came  in  alone.  He  had  just  heard  from  Mr. 
Graham,  that  he  would  probably  be  obliged  to  leave  us 
soon,  and  seemed  much  grieved  about  it.  Mr.  Graham 
had  told  him  that  his  father  had  leased  his  house  and  gar. 
den  from  Mr.  Butler  for  twenty-one  years — that  is,  had 
engaged  for  that  time  to  pay  a  certain  sum  of  money  every 
year  for  them.  When  the  twenty-one  years  were  out, 
Mr.  Graham  had  offered  to  buy  them,  on  condition  that  he 
should  not  be  asked  to  pay  the  money  for  ten  years.  Du 
ring  this  time,  he  had  every  year  put  by  something  towards 
paying  this  debt  in  a  savings  bank,  and  now,  when  the  ten 
years  wanted  but  a  very  few  months  of  being  ended,  and 
he  thought  himself  quite  ready  to  pay  for  his  house,  he 
discovered  that  the  bank  had  failed,  or,  as  Harriet  said, 
broken — that  is,  that  it  had  nothing  with  which  to  pay  him 
and  others  whom  it  owed. 


JESSIE  GRAHAM.  77 


My  brother  thought  my-  plan  for  helping  Mr.  Graham 
would  be  a  very  good  one,  if  we  could  only  find  the  work 
and  the  wages ;  but  this  he  feared  would  not  be  easy,  as 
there  were  few  persons  in  the  neighborhood  who  employed 
a  gardener. 

"  There  is  my  friend  Dickinson,"  he  said  at  length, 
"who  told  me,  when  I  saw  him  last,  that  he  intended  to 
dismiss  his  gardener,  because  he  could  not  keep  his  chil 
dren  out  of  the  garden,  where  they  were  forever  annoying 
him  by  trampling  on  his  flower-beds  and  breaking  his  flow 
ers.  This  would  be  an  excellent  place,  for  he  gives  his 
gardener  a  very  pretty  hous%  and  some  ground  for  himself, 
besides  a  high  salary,  but — "**  * 

"  Oh  !"  said  I,  interrupting  him,  "  do  not  put  in  a  lut, 
for  that  is  the  very  place  we  want." 

"  Yes,  Aunt  Kitty,"  said  Harriet,  eagerly,  "  that  is  the 
very  place." 

"  I  fear,"  said  my  brother,  smiling  at  her  earnestness, 
"  that  it  is  a  place  which  even  Aunt  Kitty  with  all  her  in 
fluence  cannot  get,  for  Mr.  Dickinson  declared  he  was  de 
termined  never  again  to  employ  a  man  who  had  children, 
and  you  know  his  determination  is  not  easily  changed." 

Still,  discouraging  as  the  case  seemed,  I  resolved  to  try, 
and  ordering  the  carriage,  I  asked  Harriet  if  she  would 
like  to  go  with  me.  "  No,  thank  you,  Aunt  Kitty.  I  would 
like  the  drive,  but  Mr.  Dickinson  looks  so  cross  I  am  al 
ways  afraid  he  is  going  to  scold  me." 

"  Did  you  not  tell  me,  when  we  were  last  there,  that 
you  would  never  be  afraid  of  him  again,  after  seeing  him 
play  so  good-humoredly  with  William  -Temple  ?" 

"  Oh  yes,  Aunt  Kitty  ;  and  now  I  remember  that,  I  think 
I  will  go,  if  you  will  ask  Mrs.  Temple,  when  we  get  there, 
to  let  me  play  with  William  in  the  nursery." 

Harriet  was  soon  ready,  and  as  the  day  was  bright  and 
the  road  good,  we  had  a  very  pleasant  drive  of  a  mile  and 
a  half  to  Mr.  Dickinson's.  Before  I  tell  you  of  our  visit, 
however,  you  would  perhaps  like  to  hear  something  of  Mr. 
Dickinson  himself,  of  Mrs.  Temple,  and  of  little  William. 

7* 


78  JESSIE  GRAHAM. 


CHAPTER   VIII.  . 

% 

VISIT    TO    FLOWERHILL. 

MR.  DICKINSON  was  "pi  elderly  gentleman,  who  had  had 
his  own  way  pretty  much  all  his  life.  In  the  first  place, 
when  he  was  a  child,  having  had  no  brothers  or  sisters, 
and  being  of  course *a  great  pet^th  his  father — his  mother 
died  when  he  was  too  young  tdVemember  her — he  was  sel 
dom  contradicted  or  opposecPin-  any  thing.  When  he  was 
about  fifteen  his  father-brought  home  another  mother  for 
him,  but  as  he  was  thefai  school,  he  was  little  under  her 
control.  In  about  »j^tar  she  too  died,  leaving  a  little  girl 
who  was  his  half-sister.  As  he  loved  this  sister  very  much, 
and  was  not  a  selfish  boy,  he  would,  I  doubt  not,  sometimes 
have  given  up  his  will  to  her,  but  she  was  taken  away  by 
an  aunt,  who  took  care  of  her,  and  with  whom  she  always 
lived  till  she  married.  This  sister  is  Mrs.  Temple,  and  a 
very  pleasant  woman  she  is,  and  dearly  does  she  love  her 
brother  William,  as  she  showed  by  naming  her  first  son 
after  him.  When  Mr.  Dickinson's  father  died,  he  was  still 
a  very  young  man.  As  he  was  rich,  had  nothing  to  keep 
him  at  home,  and  was  desirous  of  seeing  other  countries, 
.he  went  to  England,  and  was  for  several  years  travelling 
in  Great  Britain  and  on  the  continent  of  Europe.  He  could 
tell  very  pleasant  stories  of  what  he  had  seen  and  heard 
abroad,  but  he  always  ended  by  saying  he  had  never  seen 
any  place  which  he  liked  half  so  well  as  Flowerhill.  This 
was  the  name  he  had  given  to  his  home. 

And  well  might  he  like  it,  for  it  was  indeed  n  beautiful 
place.  The  house  was  built  on  the  side  of  a  hill.  It  had 
no  up-stairs,  being  only  one  story  high,  yet  it  was  so  large 
that  a  dozen  children  might  have  played  in  one  part  of  it 
without  disturbing  Mr.  Dickinson  in  the  other.  Then  it  was 
shaded  by  such  beautiful  large  old  elm-trees.  And  the 
garden — there  was  not  such  another  garden  in  the  country, 
for  Mr.  Dickinson  had  employed  a  very  skilful  English  gar 
dener,  who  had  laid  it  out  with  great  taste,  and  he  was  con 
stantly  buying  for  it  choice  and  beautiful  flowers.  People 


JESSIE    GRAHAM.  79 

—  __ 

must  have  something  to  pet.  Now  Mr.  Dickinson  being  a  sin 
gle  man,  with  no  children  to  pet,  had  learned  to  make  pets  of 
his  flowers.  You  will  probably  think,  from  all  I  have  said, 
that  Mr.  Dickinson,  with  no  one  ever  to  oppose  him,  and 
plenty  of  money  to  do  what  he  liked  with,  must  have  been 
a  very  happy  man.  When  you  are  a  little  older  you  will 
learn  that  those  are  not  the  happiest  people  who  always 
have  their  own  way.  There  were  very  few  people  who 
seemed  more  fretful  and  discontented  than  this  Mr.  Dick- 
inson.  Children,  like  Harriet,  called  him  cross,  and  ran 
away  from  him,  while  older  people  often  thought  him  proud 
and  ill-tempered,  and  were  rather  distant  with  him.  Ye^ 
those  who  knew  him  well,  liked  him  much,  for  he  was  a 
very  upright  and  honest  and  kind-hearted  man.  You  will 
be  a  little  surprised  perhaps  at  my  calling  him  kind- 
hearted,  but  could  you  have  heard  from  some  poor  old  peo 
ple  near  him,  how  often  he  sent  them  food  and  fuel  in  the 
winter  season  when  they  could  not  go  out  to  work,  and  must 
have  been  both  cold  and  hungry  but  for  him,  you  would 
not  think  it  strange.  To  be  sure,  they  said,  he  would  scold 
a  little  when  he  came  to  see  them,  if  it  was  only  because 
they  did  not  make  better  fires  or  boil  their  soup  more ;  but 
they  did  not  mind  this,  for  they  had  found  out  that  the 
more  he  scolded,  the  more  he  gave.  Then,  though  Mr. 
Dickinson  was  never  quite  satisfied  with  children,  who 
either  talked  so  loud  that  they  made  his  head  ache,  or  so 
low  that  he  could  not  hear  them,  and  if  they  walked  out 
with  him  were  certain  to  tread  either  on  his  feet  or  his 
flowers,  he  was  always  very  careful  that  they  should  not 
get  hurt  when  near  him,  and  would  often  spend  his  money 
and  give  himself  some  trouble  to  gratify  their  wishes,  if  they 
were  not  unreasonable.  Mrs.  Temple  and  her  two  chil 
dren,  William,  who  was  about  six  years  old,  and  Flora, 
who  was  nearly  four  years  younger,  had  been  spending  the 
summer  with  Mr.  Dickinson ;  and  William,  who  was  a 
fine,  spirited  boy,  was  a  great  deal  with  his  uncle,  and  took 
more  liberties  with  him  than  I  believe  anybody — boy  or 
man — had  ever  done  before. 

In  driving  to  Mr.  Dickinson's  from  my  house,  the  road 
wound  around  his  garden,  and  passed,  on  the  other  side, 
\he  house  which  had  been  built  for  his  gardener.  This 
was  a  very  pretty  cottage,  with  another  garden  at  the  back 


80  JESSIE    GRAHAM. 


of  it,  which,  though  much  smaller  than  Mr.  Dickinson's, 
and  very  simply  laid  out,  looked  scarcely  less  pleasing, — • 
with  its  raspberry  and  strawberry  vines — its  currant  and 
gooseberry  bushes — its  roses  and  pinks,  and  its  little  arbor 
of  grapes,  over  the  entrance  to  which  hung  the  fragrant 
honeysuckle  and  bright  red  woodbine.  The  house  was 
shut  up,  but  looked  as  if  it  might  have  quite  room  enough 
for  Mr.  Graham's  family.  Harriet  was  sure  it  was  just 
the  thing,  and  even  managed,  in  the  minute  we  were  pass 
ing,  to  get  a  peep  into  the  poultry-yard,  and  to  ascertain 
that  there  was  good  accommodation  for  all  Jessie's  ducks 
and  chickens. 

We  found  Mr.  Dickinson  at  home.  He  was  reading  to 
his  sister,  Mrs.  Temple,  as  she  sat  at  work  in  a  room  with 
sashed  doors  opening  into  the  garden.  One  of  these  doors 
was  open,  and  William  Temple  soon  appeared  at  it,  calling 
out,  "  Uncle,  do  come  here  and  tell  me  what  this  beautiful 
flower  is  named  ?" 

"  Not  now,  sir,  not  now,"  said  Mr.  Dickinson ;  and  then, 
before  William  could  speak,  added,  "  Pray,  sir,  do  you  not 
see  the  ladies,  that  you  take  no  notice  of  them  ?" 

William  came  in,  and  having  spoken  to  me  and  to  Har 
riet,  who  was  a  great  favorite  with  him,  he  waited  patiently 
till  there  was  a  pause  in  the  conversation,  when  he  edged 
up  to  his  uncle,  and  taking  his  hand  said,  "Come,  now 
uncle, — do  come — it  will  not  take  you  two  minutes,  and  I 
must  know  the  name  of  that  flower, — it  is  the  handsomest 
thing  I  ever  saw  in  my  life." 

"  You  are  very  persevering,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Dickinson, 
but  at  the  same  time  rose  and  suffered  the  little  boy  to  lead 
him  ofF. 

Mrs.  Temple  asked  if  I  would  not  follow  them  and  see 
this  wonderful  flower;  to  which  I  readily  agreed,  as  I 
thought  while  in  the  garden  I  might  find  a  very  good  op 
portunity  to  speak  to  Mr.  Dickinson  about  his  gardener. 
We  soon  came  up  with  William  and  his  uncle.  They 
were  standing  by  a  large  tub,  in  which  was  the  flower 
William  had  so  much  admired.  It  was  indeed  a  splendid 
plant.  When  near  enough,  I  heard  Mr.  Dickinson  pro 
nouncing  its  name  very  slowly,  while  William  carefully 
repeated  it  after  him.  It  was  so  long  that  I  fear  poor  Wil 
liam  with  all  his  trouble  did  not  remember  it  long  j  yet,  as 


JESSIE    GRAHAM.  81 


you  may  like  to  know  it  I  will  tell  it  to  you.  It  was  a 
Cactus  Grandiflora.  The  flower  was  not  yet  fully  open, 
and  on  my  saying  I  had  never  seen  one  before,  Mr.  Dick 
inson  begged  that  I  would  drive  over  the  next  day  and  look 
at  it  in  greater  perfection,  which  I  promised  to  do,  if  the 
weather  remained  pleasant.  As  we  returned  to  the  house 
William  drew  Harriet  off  into  another  walk.  Mr.  Dickin 
son  looked  after  them  for  a  moment,  and  then  said,  turning 
to  me,  "  William  is  the  only  child  I  ever  saw  who  at  six 
years  old  might  be  trusted  in  a  garden  without  fear.  He 
will  not  pluck  a  leaf  without  permission." 

"  Well  taught  children  never  do,"  said  I. 

"  Then,  ma'am,"  he  replied,  "  there  are  very  few  well 
taught  children.  I  have  just  had  to  part  with  a  most  ad 
mirable  gardener,  because  his  children  were  in  this  respect 
so  ill  taught,  that  they  did  my  flowers  more  harm  than  he, 
with  all  his  skill,  could  do  them  good." 

"  Have  you  supplied  his  place  yet  ?"  I  inquired. 

"  No,  ma'am,  I  have  not.  I  am  determined  to  engage 
no  one  who  has  children,  and  I  have  not  yet  heard  of  one 
who  has  none." 

"  Would  it  not  be  as  well  if  you  could  find  one  whose 
children  were  in  this  respect  as  well  taught  as  William 
Temple  ?" 

"  That,  ma'am,  I  think  would  be  even  more  difficult." 

"It  is  perhaps  not  common,  but  I  know  a  man  who 
would,  I  think,  suit  you  in  all  respects." 

"  Not  if  he  have  children,  ma'am,"  said  Mr.  Dickinson, 
with  a  very  determined  air. 

"  You  have  seen  his  children,  and  I  think  must  ac 
knowledge  them  to  be  well  behaved,  for  it  is  of  Mr.  Gra 
ham,  my  brother's  gardener,  that  I  speak." 

"  I  never  saw  his  children  in  a  garden,  ma'am,"  said 
Mr.  Dickinson. 

"  Suppose  I  give  you  an  opportunity  of  doing  so,"  said 
I,  "  by  bringing  his  eldest  daughter  over  with  me  to-morrow. 
She  is,  I  assure  you,  a  great  favorite  both  with  Harriet  and 
with  me." 

Before  Mr.  Dickinson  could  reply  to  me,  Mrs.  Temple 
asked  if  my  brother  was  going  to  give  up  his  gardener,  that 
I  was  seeking  other  employment  for  him.  I  replied  that 
my  brother  would  part  with  him  very  unwillingly,  but  that 


JESSIE    GRAHAM. 


Mr.  Graham  had  met  with  great  losses,  and  unless  he 
could  obtain  a  more  profitable  situation,  would  have  to 
move  away  to  some  distant  part  of  the  country  where  liv 
ing  was  cheaper,  and  where  his  large  family  might  there 
fore  be  more  easily  supported.  I  saw  that  Mr.  Dickinson 
was  listening  to  me,  though  he  said  nothing;  so,  still 
speaking  to  Mrs.  Temple,  I  explained  the  cause  of  Mr. 
Graham's  difficulties,  and  then  added,  "  It  is  for  the  aged 
mother  of  Mr.  Graham  that  I  feel  this  change  most.  Your 
brother  and  I  were  children  when  she  came  to  this  country 
with  her  husband,  who  soon  died,  leaving  her  with  this  son 
to  support,  and  nothing  but  her  own  labor  with  which  to  do 
it.  Your  father  and  some  other  friends  offered  her  the 
means  of  going  back  to  her  own  family  in  Scotland.  She 
thanked  them,  but  said,  there  was  no  home  so  dear  to  her 
as  that  where  she  had  lived  with  her  husband,  and  that  she 
could  not  leave  him,  even  in  his  grave,  alone  with  stran 
gers.  And  now — " 

"  I  will  tell  you  what  I  will  do,  ma'am,"  said  Mr.  Dick 
inson,  "  I  will  lend  Mr.  Graham  ihe  money  to  pay  for  his 
house." 

"  Ah  !  but,  Mr.  Dickinson,  how  is  he  to  make  the  money 
to  pay  you  again  ?" 

"  I  will  give  it  to  him,  ma'am,  I  will  give  it  to  him." 

"  That  will  not  do,"  said  I,  "  for  Mr.  Graham  is  a  proud 
man,  and  as  determined  in  his  way  as  Mr.  Dickinson  is  in 
his.  He  will  not  receive  alms  while  he  can  earn  a  liv- 
ing." 

Mr.  Dickinson  was  silent  a  little  while,  then  said,  "  I  do 
not  see  what  I  can  do,  for  I  cannot  have  children  here, 
that  is  certain." 

"  May  I  bring  little  Jessie  with  me  to-morrow,  and  show 
you  that  she,  like  William  Temple,  can  walk  through  a 
garden  without  plucking  a  leaf?" 

"  If  she  be  cautioned  beforehand,"  said  Mr.  Dickinson. 

"  No,"  said  I,  "  I  will  give  her  no  cautions." 

The  children  were  now  again  beside  us,  and  William, 
who  had  heard  the  last  part  of  our  conversation,  called 
out,  "  Oh  yes,  Uncle,  let  Jessie  come — do — she  is  the 
greatest  gardener  in  the  country,  and  taught  me  a  great 
deal, — now  I  will  see  if  she  ever  heard  of  Cac-tus  Grand-i- 
flo-ra,"  pronouncing  every  syllable  with  great  emphasis. 


JESSIE    GRAHAM.  83 


"  For  once,"  said  Mrs.  Temple,  smiling,  "  I  will  second 
William's  request, — let  the  little  girl  come." 

"  Oh,  certainly,  certainly,  ladies,  let  her  come.  I  have 
no  objection  to  her  coming — but,  remember,  I  make  no 
promise  to  employ  her  father  as  my  gardener." 

"  And,  uncle,  Mary  Mackay  too,  I  love  Mary  Mackay — 
pray,  ask  Aunt  Kitty  to  bring  her." 

William's  influence  seemed  irresistible,  and  I  left  Mr. 
Dickinson's  with  permission  to  bring  both  Mary  and  Jessie 
with  me  the  next  day. 


CHAPTER   IX. 

HOPES    AND    FEARS. 

WE  dined  at  Mr.  Dickinson's,  and  as  the  weather  was 
warm,  waited  till  near  sunset  before  we  returned  home. 
As  we  got  into  the  carriage,  Mr.  Dickinson  said,  "  I  shall 
expect  you  to-morrow,  if  the  weather  be  fine." 

Harriet  turned  her  head  anxiously  towards  the  west  to 
see  what  weather  the  setting  sun  would  promise  us.  It 
was  just  then  under  a  cloud,  but  we  had  not  gone  a  quarter 
of  a  mile  before  it  shone  out  very  brightly.  Harriet  clap 
ped  her  hands  and  cried  out,  "  Oh,  Aunt  Kitty,  is  it  not 
delightful  ?" 

"  It  is  very  beautiful,  my  dear,  certainly,"  said  f,  look- 
ing  at  the  cloud  which  glittered  like  the  brightest  gold  in 
the  sunlight. 

"  But,  Aunt  Kitty,  I  mean,  is  it  not  delightful  to  think 
that  we  shall  have  such  a  fine  day  to-morrow  to  go  to 
Flowerhill  ?" 

"  Why,  Harriet,  are  you  not  a  little  whimsical,  to  be  so 
highly  delighted  with  the  prospect  of  doing  to-morrow  what, 
when  I  first  proposed  it  to  you  to-day,  you  seemed  rather 
disinclined  to  do  ?" 

"  That  was  because  I  thought  Mr.  Dickinson  was  cross, 
but  William  says  he  is  not  cross  at  all ;  and  then,  you 
know,  Aunt  Kitty,  Jessie  is  to  go  with  us  to-morrow,  and  I 
am  sure,  almost,  that  Mr.  Graham  will  get  the  place." 


84  JESSIE    GRAHAM. 


"  I  wish  I  felt  sure,  Harriet,  or  even  almost  sure  of  it ; 
but  Mr.  Dickinson  seems  very  decided  not  to  have  any 
children  about  his  garden." 

"  But,  Aunt  Kitty,  when  he  sees  how  careful  Jessie  is, 
do  you  not  think  he  may  ?" 

"  We  will  hope  for  the  best,  Harriet.  But  even  should 
Mr.  Graham  not  gain  the  place,  Harriet  Armand  may 
gain  a  lesson  from  this  business,  and  a  very  useful  lesson 
too.  Do  you  see  what  this  lesson  is,  or  shall  I  tell  you  ?" 

Harriet  thought  a  minute,  and  then  said,  "  You  must  tell 
me,  Aunt  Kitty,  unless  it  is  that  I  must  be  very  careful  in 
a  garden,  and  especially  in  Mr.  Dickinson's  garden."  This 
last  was  said  with  a  laugh. 

"  No,  Harriet,  it  is  a  far  graver  and  more  important  les 
son  than  this.  It  is,  that  you  must  be  careful  everywhere 
to  do  no  wrong — not  the  least — for  that  which  seems  to  you 
a  very  little  wrong  may  be  followed  by  very  great  evil, 
and  by  evil  to  others  as  well  as  to  yourself.  Those  chil 
dren  who  have  offended  Mr.  Dickinson,  I  dare  say,  thought 
it  no  great  harm  that  they  now  and  then  picked  a  flower, 
or,  in  their  play,  ran  over  and  trampled  down  the  beds  in 
his  garden  ;  yet  you  see  how  much  evil  has  followed, — 
their  own  parents  have  lost  their  pleasant  home,  and  now 
the  remembrance  of  their  bad  conduct  may  prevent  a  good 
man's  getting  a  situation  which  would  save  his  family  from 
great  distress.  God  has  taught  us,  my  child,  that  wrong 
doing  always  brings  suffering,  but  what,  or  how  great  that 
suffering  may  be,  we  know  not.  Remember  this,  Harriet ; 
and  remember,  too,  that  when  once  the  wrong  is  done,  how 
ever  bitterly  we  may  mourn  over  it,  we  cannot  undo  it,  and 
the  suffering  will  follow — we  cannot  escape  it." 

"  But,  Aunt  Kitty,"  said  Harriet,  in  a  low  and  hesitating 
tone,  "  if  we  are  sorry  for  what  we  do  wrong, — if  we  mourn 
over  it,  as  you  say^  will  not  God  forgive  us  ?" 

"  Yes,  Harriet,  He  will  forgive  us,  and  so  take  away 
from  us  the  worst  of  all  evifcs — His  displeasure.  He  will 
pity  us,  and  his  '  loving-kindness'  will  comfort  us  under 
our  suffering  ; — but  the  suffering  must  come,  and  either  by 
enduring  it  ourselves  or  by  seeing  others  endure  it,  we 
shall  be  taught  how  much  better  it  would  have  been  if  we 
had  not  done  the  wrong — how  wise  was  that  commandment 
of  God  which  forbade  us  to  do  it." 


JESSIE    GRAHAM.  85 


The  sun  had  set  before  we  were  at  home.  Harriet's 
first  inquiry  was1,  if  Jessie  had  been  yet  to  feed  the  cow. 
She  had  been,  the  servant  said,  and  had  gone  back  home 
only  a  few  minutes  before  we  arrived.  I  told  Harriet  that 
after  we  had  taken  tea  we  would  walk  over  to  Mr.  Graham's 
together,  and  invite  Jessie  to  go  with  us  in  the  morning. 

"  And  may  I  tell  her,  Aunt  Kitty,  all  about  your  trying 
to  get  the  place  for  her  father,  and  beg  her  to  be  very  care 
ful  not  to  touch  the  flowers  ?" 

"  No,  Harriet,  Jessie  would,  like  you,  probably  feel 
almost  sure  of  the  place  for  her  father,  and  the  disappoint 
ment  would  be  very  hard  to  bear  if  he  did  not  get  it.  Be 
sides,  I  promised  Mr.  Dickinson  to  give  her  no  caution." 

"  But,  Aunt  Kitty,  I  may  just  tell  her  how  cross  Mr. 
Dickinson  is,  so  that  she  may  feel  very  much  afraid  to 
touch  any  thing." 

"Harriet !"  said  I,  "  have  you  forgotten  already  William 
Temple's  assurances  that  his  uncle  is  not  cross  at  all  ?" 

"  No,  Aunt  Kitty,  I  have  not  forgotten — I  did  not  mean 
how  cross,  but  how  particular  he  is." 

"  I  think  you  had  better  say  nothing  to  spoil  Jessie's  en 
joyment  of  a  pleasant  day.  You  would  do  no  good  by 
making  her  afraid  to  move.  Mr.  Dickinson  would  see 
quickly  enough  that  she  was  not  acting  naturally,  and 
would  place  no  confidence  in  the  continuance  of  such  ex 
treme  cautiousness."  Harriet  still  looked  anxious,  and  I 
added,  "  I  can  trust  Jessie  without  any  cautions." 

The  evening  was  very  still — so  still,  that,  as  we  walked 
to  Mr.  Graham's,  we  could  hear  the  grasshoppers  jumping 
from  our  path,  and  the  lowing  of  a  cow  in  a  field  near  us 
sounded  so  loud,  that  Harriet  started  as  if  it  had  been  some 
strange  noise.  As  we  passed  the  garden  we  heard  old 
Mrs.  Graham's  voice,  and  though  the  fence  was  too  high 
for  me  to  see  them,  I  soon  found  that  she  and  Jessie  were 
walking  just  inside  of  it,  and  therefore  near  enough  for  us 
to  hear  what  they  said.  Had  they  been  talking  of  any 
thing  which  they  might  not  have  wished  a  stranger  to  hear, 
I  would  have  spoken  to  them,  but  as  this  was  not  the  case, 
and  as  I  was  interested  in  their  conversation,  I  motioned 
to  Harriet  to  keep  quiet  and  listen  to  it. 

"  Ah,  yes,  Jessie,  it  is  a  pretty  place — a  very  pretty 
place,"  said  Mrs.  Graham. 

8 


86  JESSIE    GRAHAM. 


"But,  grandmother,"  said  Jessie,  "there  are  a  great 
many  other  places  just  as  pretty." 

"  Maybe  so,  Jessie,  maybe  so,  but  there  are  none,  child, 
we  love  so  well." 

"  But  when  we  get  used  to  them,  grandmother,  we  should 
get  to  love  them,  should  we  not  ?" 

Mrs.  Graham  was  silent  for  a  minute  or  two,  till  Jessie 
said,  "  Say,  grandmother,  should  we  not  ?" 

"  I  was  thinking,  my  dear,  and  I  do  not  think  I  could. 
You  would,  Jessie,  for  the  hearts  of  young  people  like  you 
are  full  of  hope.  You  are  always  thinking  of  the  pleasure 
you  will  have  to-morrow,  or  the  next  week,  or  the  next 
month,  and  every  change,  you  think,  will  bring  some  en 
joyment.  But  our  hearts,  Jessie,  the  hearts  of  the  old,  are 
full  of  what  we  remember  of  the  pleasures  we  have  had 
already,  and  which  can  never  come  back  to  us,  and  we 
love  the  old  places  best  where  we  can  look  around  and  say 
to  ourselves — '  There  I  had  a  pleasant  walk  with  such  a 
dear  friend ;  and,  There  I  sat  when  I  heard  such  a  piece  of 
good  news  ;  and  so  on.'  Do  you  understand  me,  Jessie  ?" 

"Yes,  grandmother."  After  awhile,  Jessie  said  in  a 
very  low  voice,  so  that  I  could  just  hear  her,  "  Grandmother, 
did  not  grandfather  live  here  ?" 

"  Yes,  my  child,  and  I  was  just  going  to  tell  you,  Jessie, 
that  there  is  one  move  I  would  be  willing  to  make  ;  I  would 
be  willing  to  live  near,  quite  near,  the  church,  for  it  is  get 
ting  to  be  hard  work  for  me  to  get  in  and  out  of  a  wagon, 
and  I  cannot  walk  so  far  now,  and  though  I  am  sure  you 
take  good  care  of  grandfather's  grave,  I  shall  still  want  to 
see  it  sometimes  myself." 

Flowerhill  was  quite  near  the  country  church  in  whose 
graveyard  Mr.  Graham  had  been  buried,  and  Harriet  could 
not  resist  whispering  to  me,  "  Oh,  Aunt  Kitty,  it  will  just 
do." 

Mrs.  Graham  said  nothing  more,  and  when  we  entered 
the  house  at  the  front  door,  she  and  Jessie  were  just  coming 
up  the  steps  which  led  from  the  garden.  Jessie  was  de 
lighted  with  the  promise  for  to-morrow,  and  so  often  repeated 
how  good  it  was  in  Mr.  Dickinson  to  let  William  Temple 
ask  her,  that  I  saw  Harriet  was  quite  afraid  that  Mr.  Dick 
inson  would  not  appear  awful  enough  in  Jessie's  eyes,  and 
that  she  longed  to  add,  "  but  he  is  very  particular."  It 


JESSIE  GRAHAM.  87 


was  arranged  that  we  were  to  go  quite  early  in  the  morn 
ing,  that  is,  by  nine  o'clock,  when  it  would  be  still  cool  and 
pleasant.  This  hour  did  not  make  it  necessary  for  us  to 
rise  earlier  than  we  usually  did,  as  we  always  breakfasted 
at  seven  o'clock  in  summer.  Yet,  so  much  was  Harriet 
excited,  that  three  times  in  the  night  she  called  out  from 
her  little  room,  to  ask  if  I  thought  it  near  daylight,  and  she 
started  up  in  the  morning  with  the  first  ray  of  sunlight. 
As  soon  as  she  was  dressed,  I  sent  her  for  Mary  Mackay. 
Before  breakfast  was  on  table  all  my  company  was  collected, 
and  a  merrier  company  was  certainly  never  seen,  except 
Harriet,  who,  though  pleased,  was  anxious.  Mary  jumped, 
and  danced,  and  laughed,  and  sung,  till  Harriet  exclaimed, 
"  Mary,  if  you  do  so  at  Mr.  Dickinson's  he  will  think  you 
crazy.  I  am  sure  he  would  not  trust  anybody  who  danced 
about  as  you  are  doing,  in  his  garden  for  one  moment." 

"  I  do  not  care  to  go  in  his  garden,"  said  Mary,  "  I 
would  rather  a  great  deal  play  under  the  trees  with  Wil 
liam." 

"  But  you  must  go  in  the  garden,  Mary,  or  you  will  not 
see  the  flower,  and  you  know  you  were  asked  to  see  the 
flower." 

"  Don't  be  afraid,  Harriet ;  I'll  go  in  the  garden,  and  when 
I  do,  I'll  walk  so,"  putting  her  hands  down  close  to  her 
side  as  she  spoke,  and  mincing  her  steps  as  if  she  was 
treading  on  something  she  was  afraid  of  crushing.  I  had 
a  little  suspicion  that  this  lesson  was  intended  by  Harriet 
more  for  Jessie  than  for  Mary. 


CHAPTER    X. 

THE  GARDEN THE  LITTLE  AND  THE  GRAND  FLORA. 

As  HARRIET  had  been  taught  always  to  speak  kindly  to 
servants,  she  was  quite  a  favorite  with  them,  and  her  pe 
tition  to  the  coachman  that  he  would  drive  fast,  made  him 
put  the  horses  into  such  rapid  motion  that  the  mile  and  a 


88  JESSIE  GRAHAM. 


half  was  soon  passed,  and  we  were  landed  at  Flowerhill 
before  Mary  had  half  arranged  her  plans  of  amusement  for 
the  day.  Notwithstanding  our  speed,  however,  William 
called  out,  as  we  drove  up,  "  What  made  you  wait  so  long? 
I  have  been  watching  for  you  this  great  while." 

Mr.  Dickinson  spoke  to  the  children  very  pleasantly,  and 
asked  very  kindly  after  Jessie's  grandmother.  As  he 
caught  my  eye,  however,  on  turning  away  from  her,  he 
shook  his  head  with  a  look  which  seemed  to  say,  "  Remem 
ber,  I  promise  nothing." 

William  was  so  impatient  to  show  Jessie  the  flower  and 
to  exhibit  his  own  accomplishments  as  a  florist,  that  he 
carried  the  children  off  at  once  to  the  garden.  Mr.  Dick 
inson  looked  rather  anxiously  after  them  as  they  went 
tripping  gayly  along  the  walks,  and  very  soon  proposed 
that  we  should  follow  them.  I  acknowledge  that,  confident 
as  I  had  expressed  myself  to  be,  and  as  I  really  was,  of 
Jessie's  good  behavior,  my  great  anxiety  that  she  should  be 
particularly  cautious,  made  me  a  little  nervous,  a  little 
fearful  that  she  might  at  least  let  the  skirt  of  her  dress 
brush  off  a  leaf,  and  thus  give  Mr.  Dickinson  an  excuse 
for  adhering  to  his  determination.  I  was,  therefore,  quite 
ready  to  join  the  children,  who  would,  I  thought,  be  more 
quiet  when  we  were  near.  The  first  sight  of  them,  how 
ever,  set  my  fears  at  rest,  and  I  glanced  at  Mr.  Dickinson 
with  something  of  triumph.  There  they  stood  ranged 
around  the  tub  in  which  was  the  strange  and  beautiful 
flower  they  were  admiring,  yet  not  a  finger  was  raised 
even  to  point  at  it ;  on  the  contrary,  they  were  holding 
each  other's  hands  as  if  they  feared  their  own  forgetful- 
ness.  They  moved  away  as  we  came  up,  though  not  far, 
and  William  Temple  continued  to  repeat  to  Jessie  all  which 
he  had  learned  from  his  uncle  of  the  nature  and  habits  of 
the  plant.  After  I  had  observed  all  the  beauties  of  this  pride 
of  the  garden,  and  exhibited  as  much  admiration  for  them 
.as  even  Mr.  Dickinson  could  desire,  he  invited  me  to  walk 
with  him  to  a  distant  part  of  the  garden,  where  he  had 
some  other  plants  scarce  less  beautiful  or  less  rare  than 
this.  Little  Flora  Temple,  who,  as  I  have  before  told  you, 
was  only  about  two  years  old,  had  held  her  mother's  finger 
and  run  along  by  her  side  from  the  house,  prattling  all  the 
way  of  the  "  pitty  fower"  which  she  was  going  to  see. 


JESSIE  GRAHAM.  89 


She  now  refused  to  go  any  farther,  saying,  "  Fola  tired — 
stay,  Willy." 

Mrs.  Temple  looked  at  Mr.  Dickinson  doubtfully,  but  as 
if  to  show  the  confidence  which  the  good  conduct  of  the 
children  had  given  him,  he  made  no  objection,  saying,  in 
deed,  "  William  will  take  good  care  of  her," — so  she  was 
left. 

With  a  lightened  heart,  beginning  to  feel  as  Harriet  did, 
almost  sure  that  Mr.  Graham  would  have  the  place,  I  went. 
What  happened  after  we  had  left  the  children,  I  must  tell 
you  as  I  learned  it  from  themselves.  It  seems,  that  find 
ing  her  brother  too  much  engaged  with  Jessie  and  his  new 
office  of  teacher  to  attend  much  to  her,  Flora  became  weary 
and  teased  him  to  take  her  into  the  house.  "  Poor  thing," 
said  William,  "  she  is  tired  standing  up.  If  brother  Willy 
finds  a  .pretty  place  for  her,  will  she  sit  down  quite  still  till 
he  runs  to  the  house  for  Nursey  to  come  and  take  her 
up?" 

The  child  assented.  Now,  unfortunately,  just  by  the 
Cactus  stood  a  flower-stand,  not  intended  for  a  parlor,  but 
large  and  high,  making  a  pretty  ornament  in  a  garden 
when  covered  with  small  plants,  which  were  better  sunned 
in  this  way  than  if  placed  on  the  earth.  This  flower-stand 
was  in  the  shape  of  a  half  moon ;  the  shelves  looked  like 
steps,  and  were  quite  strong  enough  to  bear  Flora's  weight, 
or  indeed  William's.  They  were  dry  and  clean,  and 
seemed  to  him  to  offer  a  very  nice  and  safe  seat  for  Flora, 
especially  as  she  would  be  within  sight  of  the  house  all  the 
time.  William  was  only  six  years  old,  and  perhaps  does 
not  deserve  to  be  blamed  very  much  for  forgetting,  in  this 
arrangement,  that  as  his  back  would  be  towards  Flora  in 
going  to  the  house,  and  as  the  other  children  were  standing 
behind  the  flower-stand,  neither  he  nor  they  would  be  able 
to  see  her  or  provide  for  her  safety.  They  had  paid  little 
attention  to  her,  and  supposed,  when  they  missed  her,  that 
William  had  taken  her  to  the  house  with  him,  while  he  had 
in  reality  placed  her  on  the  third  shelf,  or  step,  as  he  called 
it,  of  the  flower-stand.  Giving  her  a  few  common  flowers 
to  amuse  her,  he  ran  on  without  thought  of  harm.  Jessie 
was  still  occupied  With  the  strange  stalk  and  leaves  of  this 
wonderful  plant,  which  she  was  every  minute  wishing  her 
father  could  see — Harriet,  equally  intent  on  guarding  Mr. 

8* 


90  JESSIE    GRAHAM. 


Dickinson's  treasures  from  the  touch  even  of  Jessie's  dress, 
and  Mary  in  looking  for  a  weed,  of  which  William  Tern- 
pie  had  declared  there  was  not  one  in  his  uncle's  garden, 
when  they  were  all  startled  by  a  scream.  It  was  William's 
voice — then  followed  a  few  eager  words,  "  Jessie,  look  up 
— Jessie — Harriet — catch  her  !" 

Jessie  looked-  up,  and  there  stood  Flora  Temple  on  the 
topmost  height  of  the  narrow  flower-stand.  Attracted  pro 
bably  by  the  voices,  she  had  climbed  up,  intending,  no  doubt,  to 
get  down  to  them  gn  the  other  side.  William,  who  first  saw 
her,  was  too  far  away  to  help  her,  and  when  Jessie  looked  at 
her,  she  had  already  become  frightened  and  was  leaning 
forwards  with  her  arms  outstretched.  Harriet  ran  around 
the  stand  to  go  up  to  her — Jessie  saw  it  was  too  late  for 
this — in  one  instant  she  was  standing  on  the  tub — the  Cactus 
tub — the  next,  Flora  was  in  her  arms,  the  child  was  safe, 
and  the  flower,  the  splendid  flower,  the  pride  of  Mr.  Dick 
inson's  garden,  and  admiration  of  his  guests,  lay  on  the 
ground.  Falling  from  such  a  height,  Flora's  weight  had 
been  too  much  for  Jessie.  She  had  bent  under  it,  and 
pressing  against  the  stake,  supporting  the  flower,  it  had 
broken,  and  before  Jessie  could  raise  herself,  the  flower 
was  at  her  feet.  For  a  time  it  was  unseen,  for  all  were 
occupied  with  Flora,  who  screamed  as  if  she  had  really 
met  the  fall  she  had  so  narrowly  escaped.  Her  nurse  took 
her  from  Jessie,  and  moved  towards  the  house  with  her, 
followed  by  all  the  children,  without  any  one  of  them  hav 
ing  even  glanced  at  the  Cactus.  After  going  a  short  dis 
tance,  however,  the  girls,  finding  they  could  do  nothing  to 
pacify  her,  returned  to  look  for  Mary's  gloves  and  hand 
kerchief,  which  she  had  laid  down  and  quite  forgotten  in 
her  fright  about  Flora.  As  they  came  near  the  flower, 
Harriet  was  the  first  to  perceive  the  mischief  done,  and  to 
exclaim,  "  Oh,  Jessie,  see  what  you  have  done  !  What  will 
Mr.  Dickinson  say  ?" 

Jessie  was  a  timid  child,  and  Mr.  Dickinson  seemed  to 
her  the  most  awful  person  in  the  world.  Distressed  and 
frightened,  she  stood  for  a  minute  with  her  hands  clasped, 
looking  down  at  the  prostrate  flower  without  speaking  a 
word,  then  suddenly  looking  up,  said,  "Harriet,  I  am  very 
sorry,  but  I  could  not  help  it,  and  I  must  just  go  to  Mr. 
Dickinson  and  tell  him  I  did  it." 


JESSIE    GRAHAM  91 


"Ah,  Jessie !  you  do  not  know  all,"  said  Harriet,  "  or 
it  would  not  seem  so  easy  to  tell  him  that." 

"  It  does  not  seem  easy,  Harriet,"  Jessie  began — but 
Mary  interrupted  her,  exclaiming  warmly,  "  Why,  Har 
riet  !  I  do  believe  you  think  Jessie  ought  to  have  let  Flora 
fall  rather  than  have  broken  that  one  single  flower." 

"  No,  Mary,  I  do  not  think  so,  but  I  wish  anybody  else 
had  done  it  rather  than  Jessie." 

"  Why,  Harriet  ?"  said  Jessie,  "  why  would  you  rather 
anybody  else  had  done  it  ?" 

"  Because,  Jessie,  I  would  rather  Mr.  Dickinson  should 
be  angry  to-day  with  anybody  than  with  you." 

"  But  why  ?"  persisted  Jessie. 

Harriet  hesitated — then  said,  "  I  may  as  well  tell  you, 
Jessie ;  for  the  only  reason  Aunt  Kitty  did  not  wish  me  to, 
was  that  you  would  be  too  sure,  and  there's  no  danger  of 
that  now." 

"  Too  sure  of  what  ?" 

"  Why,  that  he  would  have  your  father  for  his  gar 
dener," — and  then  Harriet  told  of  all  her  hopes  and  fears, 
and  of  my  efforts,  and  of  the  beautiful  house  and  garden, 
and  six  hundred  dollars  a-year  which  Mr.  Dickinson  gave 
his  gardener, — "  And  then  you  know,  Jessie,  you  would 
not  be  too  far  to  come  every  day  to  school  to  Miss  Bennett ; 
and  see,  Jessie,  there's  the  church,"  pointing  to  the  steeple, 
"  so  near,  and  you  know  your  grandmother  wants  to  live 
near  the  church,  and  this  was  what  made  me  want  you  to 
come  so  very  much  that  Mr.  Dickinson  might  see  how 
careful  you  were,  and  then  I  was  almost  sure  he  would  let 
your  father  have  the  place ;  but  now — "  and  she  looked 
down  sorrowfully  at  the  prostrate  flower. 

Jessie,  who  had  listened  with  wondering  and  eager  ears, 
looked  down  too  and  said  nothing. 

After  a  short  pause,  Mary  Mackay  exclaimed,  "  They 
are  coming, — I  hear  Mr.  Dickinson — but  do  not  look  so 
pale  and  so  frightened,  Jessie.  I  will  tell  you  what  I  will 
do — I  am  not  afraid  of  Mr.  Dickinson — he  cannot  do  any 
thing  to  hurt  me.  Now,  Jessie,  do  not  begin  to  say  no — I 
am  not  going  to  tell  a  story — I  am  just  going  to  let  him 
think  it  was  I  who  broke  the  flower." 

"  No,  no,  Mary,"  said  Jessie — but  before  she  had  finish 
ed  speaking,  Mary  had  picked  up  the  broken  branch,  and 


92  JESSIE    GRAHAM. 


stood  in  the  path  before  the  astonished  Mr.  Dickinson  and 
myself.  Mrs.  Temple  had  excused  herself  and  returned 
to  the  house  by  another  way  some  time  before.  There 
stood  Mary  with  the  branch  in  her  hand — the  branch,  with 
its  flower  broken  and  soiled. 

"  Mr.  Dickinson,"  her  voice  faltered,  and  she  evidently 
began  to  grow  frightened,  but  she  continued,  "  I  am  very 
sorry,  sir,  your  flower  has  got  broke." 

Mr.  Dickinson  turned  first  red  and  then  pale.  He 
said  not  a  word  to  Mary,  but  turned  to  me  with  a  look 
which  I  well  understood — it  said  as  plainly  as  words  could 
have  done,  "You  see  how  right  I  was  about  children." 
This  passed  in  an  instant,  for  you  know  looks  do  not  take 
long,  and  before  I  could  say  a  word  to  him — before  I  could 
even  ask  Mary  how  it  happened,  Jessie  stood  beside  her. 
She  was  very  pale.  Laying  her  hand  on  the  branch  which 
Mary  held,  she  said  very  distinctly,  though  her  voice  was 
low,  "  She  did  not  break  it,  sir — it  was  I." 

'  We  were  all  silent  for  a  moment,  and  then  Mr.  Dickin 
son  spoke,  "  It  was  you  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Then,  my  dear,"  he  continued,  speaking  very  slowly, 
"  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you,  for  you  have  saved  me 
probably  from  a  great  many  such  trials.  Had  you  been 
as  careful  and  well-behaved  as  this  lady  thought  you,  I 
should  have  been  hardly  able  to  refuse  her  request  that  I 
would  take  your  father  as  my  gardener,  at  least  on  trial 
for  one  year,  and  at  the  end  of  that  time,  I  should,  it  seems, 
have  had  little  of  a  garden  to  keep." 

Mr.  Dickinson  walked  on  without  another  word  or  even 
look  at  the  little  culprits.  And  I  walked  on  too.  You  will 
think  me  very  cruel,  and  so  I  thought  myself  but  a  minute 
after,  as  I  heard  Jessie's  low,  half-smothered  sobs,  and  the 
efforts  of  Harriet  and  Mary  to  console  her ;  but  I  was  really 
vexed  with  Jessie,  for  you  must  remember  I  did  not  know 
how  she  had  been  so  unfortunate  as  to  break  the  plant, — 
the  children  had  been  too  much  frightened  even  to  think 
of  telling  us  that.  Besides,  I  was  on  my  way  to  see  a  new 
dairy  of  Mr.  Dickinson's,  and  as  I  had  asked  to  see  it,  he 
would  have  thought  my  leaving  him  unpardonably  impo 
lite.  I  fear,  as  it  was,  I  must  have  seemed  very  inatten 
tive,  for  I  often  forgot  to  answer  him  while  listening  to 


JESSIE  GRAHAM.  93 


poor  Jessie's  sobs,  or  looking  back  to  the  garden  walk 
where  she  still  stood  with  her  head  resting  on  Harriet's 
shoulder,  while  Mary  held  one  of  her  hands  and  talked 
with  even  more  than  her  usual  earnestness.  What  they 
said  I  must  repeat  to  you  as  I  heard  it  from  themselves, 
since  it  is  necessary  you  should  know  it  in  order  to  under 
stand  what  afterwards  happened. 

"  I  would  not  cry,  Jessie,"  said  Mary,  "  I  would  be  glad 
my  father  was  not  to  live  with  such  a  cross,  bad  man." 

"  Oh,  Mary !  you  do  not  know  how  badly  father  feels 
about  going  away.  He  thinks  it  will  kill  grandmother 
only  to  hear  about  it — and  he  might  have  come  here  if  it 
had  not  been  for  me — I  am  so  sorry  I  came.  What  shall 
I  do,  Harriet  ?— What  shall  I  do  ?" 

"  Let  us  all  go  and  beg  Mr.  Dickinson,"  said  Mary ;  "I 
am  sure  if  we  told  him  that  Jessie  had  done  it  all  to  keep 
little  Flora  Temple  from  hurting  herself,  he  could  not  be 
so  cross." 

"  Well,"  said  Harriet,  "  let  us  try — we  can  do  no  harm 
— for  he  cannot  be  more  angry  than  he  is." 

Poor  Jessie  was  willing  to  try  any  thing,  though  she  had 
little  hope.  When  she  came  near  us,  however,  her  heart 
failed  her  and  she  drew  back.  Mary,  who  was  always 
ready  to  be  speaker,  proposed  that  Jessie  and  Harriet  should 
stay  where  they  were,  while  she  went  forward  and  told 
the  story.  This  was  agreed  to,  and  we  had  scarcely  en 
tered  the  dairy  when  Mary  followed  us  in.  Breathing 
very  hard  and  quick,  and  looking  quite  flushed  and  agi 
tated,  she  began,  "  Mr.  Dickinson — Aunt  Kitty — Aunt 
Kitty,  I  am  come  to  tell  Mr.  Dickinson  how  Jessie  broke 
the  flower." 

"  There  is  no  occasion,  my  dear,"  said  Mr.  Dickinson, 
looking  quite  fretted  and  angry  ;  "  I  do  not  care  to  know 
how  she  broke  it,  it  is  quite  enough  for  me  to  know  that  it 
is  broken." 

"But  I  want  to  tell  you,  sir,"  persisted  Mary,  "because 
I  am  sure  if  you  knew,  you  would  not  be  angry  with  her." 

"  Angry  with  her  ! — I  am  not  at  an  angry  with  her.  I 
do  not  doubt  that  she  is  a  very  good  girl,  and  that  I  should 
like  her  very  much,  but  not  in  my  garden,  Miss  Mary — 
not  in  my  garden." 

I  saw  that  Mr.  Dickinson  felt  worried,  and  that  Jessie's 


94  JESSIE    GRAHAM. 


cause  was  not  gaining  any  thing  from  Mary's  application, 
so  taking  her  hand,  I  said,  "  Do  not  tease  Mr.  Dickinson, 
my  dear, — tell  Jessie  Mr.  Dickinson  says  he  is  not  angry 
with  her,  and  that  Aunt  Kitty  loves  her  better  than  ever  for 
having  told  the  truth  so  readily  and  firmly." 

Mary  looked  very  much  dissatisfied,  but  as  Mr.  Dickin 
son  turned  his  back  to  her  and  talked  to  me  as  if  she  had 
not  been  there,  it  was  of  no  use  to  stay,  and  she  soon  left  us. 

"  Jessie,"  said  Mary,  when  she  got  back  to  her,  "  Mr. 
Dickinson  is  a  cross  bad  man,  and  I  would  not  mind 
him  at  all.  He  said  he  was  not  angry  with  you,  but  he 
was  just  as  angry  as  he  could  be,  for  he  would  not  hear  a 
word  I  had  to  say  about  you — but  Aunt  Kitty  says  you 
must  not  cry,  and  that  she  loves  you  better  than  ever  for 
telling  the  truth." 

Pleased  as  Jessie  was  with  my  praise,  it  could  not  com 
fort  her  for  her  father's  loss,  or  give  her  courage  to  meet 
the  dreaded  Mr.  Dickinson. 

"  Harriet,"  said  she,  "  I  do  want  to  go  home." 

"  Well,  Jessie,  you  shall  go — I  will  ask  Aunt  Kitty  to 
send  you  there  in  the  carriage,  and  then  let  it  come  back 
for  us." 

"  No,  no,  Harriet-^then  they  will  all  talk  to  me  and 
want  me  to  stay.  It's  only  a  little  way,  and  1  walk  every 
week  to  the  church — why  cannot  I  just  slip  through  that 
garden  gate  and  get  home  without  anybody's  knowing  it  ? 
I  shall  feel  so  much  better  when  I  have  told  father  and 
grandmother  all  about  it." 

"  I  dare  say  you  will,"  said  Harriet,  "  for  when  any 
thing  troubles  me  I  want  to  tell  Aunt  Kitty  directly,  and 
your  grandmother  is  just  the  same  to  you.  I  would  tell 
her  all,  Jessie,  for  I  am  sure  she  would  a  great  deal  rather 
go  away  anywhere  than  to  have  had  you  tell  a  story." 

"  That  I  am  sure  of  too,"  said  Jessie. 

"  Well,"  said  Mary,  coloring  up,  "  I  did  not  mean  to  tell 
a  story,  but  I  do  not  see  what  harm  it  would  have  been  to 
let  Mr.  Dickinson  think  it  was  I  that  broke  his  plant,  just 
from  seeing  the  brancn  in  my  hand." 

"  Oh,  Mary  !"  said  Jessie,  "  I  know  you  would  not  tell  a 
story,  and  it  was  very  kind  in  you  to  want  to  take  the 
blame  from  me, — but  indeed,  Mary,  it  would  not  have  been 
right,  I'm  sure  it  would  not ;  and  badly  as  I  do  feel  now,  I 


JESSIE  GRAHAM.  95 


should  have  felt  a  great  deal  worse  if  I  had  not  told  Mr. 
Dickinson  all  the  truth, — but  good-by,  girls,"  for  they  had 
walked  on  while  talking,  and  both  Harriet  and  Mary  had 
gone  with  her  beyond  the  gate,  "I'll  go.  and  tell  father, 
and  beg  him  to  let  me  tell  grandmother  all  about  it.  He 
said  last  night  he  wished  she  knew,  only  he  could  not  bear 
to  tell  her." 

Jessie's  tears  had  ceased  as  soon  as  she  determined  to  go 
home  and  tell  her  troubles  there,  and  Harriet  and  Mary 
parted  from  her  with  smiles,  promising  to  beg  me  to  go 
back  early,  and  to  let  them  go  directly  to  her  house. 


CHAPTER    XI. 

TRUTH  REWARDED. 

I  DO  not  know  exactly  how  long  it  was  before  Mr.  Dick 
inson  and  I  returned  to  the  house,  but  the  children  were 
there  before  us,  and  were  already  telling  the  story  of  Jes 
sie's  griefs  to  William,  who  was  quite  as  much  distressed 
for  her,  and  as  angry  with  his  uncle  as  even  Mary  could  de 
sire.  As  we  entered  the  piazza  where  the  children  stood, 
I  asked  for  Jessie. 

"  She  has  gone  home,"  said  Harriet. 

"  Gone  home  !"  I  repeated  in  surprise. 

"  Yes,"  said  William,  looking  very  boldly  at  his  uncle, 
"  and  I  think  she  was  very  right  to  go.  I  would  not  stay 
where  I  was  scolded  just  for  breaking  a  flower." 

"  William  !"  said  Mrs.  Temple,  in  surprise  at  his  vio 
lence,  for  he  was  usually  very  gentle  in  his  temper.  Mr. 
Dickinson  folded  his  arms  and  looked  at  him  without  speak 
ing,  as  if  he  wished  to  hear  all  he  had  to  say  before  an 
swering  him'. 

"Well,  mother,"  said  William,  still  trying  to  speak 
boldly,  though  tears  were  in  his  eyes,  and  he  could  not 
prevent  the  quivering  of  his  lip,  "  I  do  think  it  was  very 
hard  that  Jessie  should  be  scolded  just  for  saving  my  little 
sister  from  being  hurt,  or  maybe  killed.  I  am  sure  our 


96  JESSIE    GRAHAM. 


little  Flora  is  worth  a  great  deal  more  than  any  grand 
Flora." 

"  Saved  little  Flora !"  repeated  Mr.  Dickinson,  "  what 
does  the  child  mean  ?"  looking  at  me,  while  I  turned  to 
Mrs.  Temple  for  an  explanation. 

"  William  is  right,"  she  answered,  "  in  what  he  says, 
though  very  wrong  in  his  manner  of  saying  it.  I  am  sorry 
Jessie  has  gone  without  my  thanks,  for,  from  the  account 
given  both  by  William  and  the  nurse,  she  has  evinced  ex 
traordinary  presence  of  mind  for  so  young  a  child,  and  has 
saved  Flora  from  a  very  dangerous  fall." 

"  Fall  from  what  ?" 

"  From  the  large  flower-stand  which  stood  near  the 
Cactus,  on  a  shelf  of  which  William  seated  her  while  he 
came  to  the  house  for  her  nurse.  Flora  climbed  to  the 
top,  and  would  have  fallen  on  the  flower,  or  worse,  on  the 
stake  which  supported  it,  had  not  Jessie  saved  her." 

"  And  in  saving  her  broke  the  flower.  I  see  it  all  now," 
said  Mr.  Dickinson  ;  "  but  why  did  not  the  child  tell  me  so  ?" 

"  I  tried  to  tell  you,  sir,"  said  Mary,  "  in  the  dairy,  but 
you  would  not  let  me." 

Mr.  Dickinson  colored,  as  if  he  was  ashamed  to  remem 
ber  how  angry  he  had  been. 

"  And,  Miss  Mary  Mackay,  I  think  you  had  some  inten 
tion  of  telling  me  a  story  ;  of  making  me  believe,  if  Jessie 
had  let  you,  that  you  had  broken  the  flower ;  why  was 
this  ?" 

Mary  hung  her  head  and  looked  very  much  ashamed", 
but  answered,  "  I  did  not  mean  to  tell  a  story,  Mr.  Dick 
inson,  I  only  meant  to  let  you  think  it  was  I,  because 
it  was  better  for  you  to  be  angry  with  me  than  to  be  angry 
with  Jessie." 

"  You  only  meant  to  let  me  think  it  was  you  ; — and  have 
you  been  so  ill  taught,  young  lady,  that  you  do  not  know 
that  in  deceiving  me  by  your  looks  and  manner,  you  were 
as  guilty  of  falsehood  as  if  you  had  spoken  it  ?  But  why 
would  it  have  been  better  for  me  to  be  angry  with  you  than 
with  Jessie?" — then,  without  waiting  for  an  answer,  Mr. 
Dickinson  turned  to  me  and  asked,  "  Did  I  not  understand 
you,  ma'am,  that  Jessie  was  to  know  nothing  of  your  plans, 
that  I  might  see  how  she  would  behave  when  unrestrained 
by  any  cautions  ?" 


JESSIE    GRAHAM.  97 


"  I  did  tell  you  so,"  said  I,  "  and  was,  I  assure  you,  true 
to  my  promise." 

"  Aunt  Kitty,"  said  Harriet,  "  after  Jessie  had  broken 
the  flower,  I  was  so  sorry  that  I  told  her  and  Mary  all 
about  it." 

"  All  about  what  ?"  asked  Mr.  Dickinson 

"  About  Aunt  Kitty's  wanting  you  to  have  Mr.  Graham 
for  your  gardener,  sir ;  and  that  I  thought  you  would  have 
had  him,  and  have  given  him  that  pretty  house  and  garden, 
and  six  hundred  dollars  a  year,  if  Jessie  had  not  hurt  any 
thing." 

"  Then  Jessie  knew  all  this  when  she  told  me  what  she 
had  done  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  it  was  this  that  made  Mary  want  her  to  let 
you  think  she  had  done  it ;  but  Jessie  said  she  should  never 
feel  happy  if  she  did  not  tell  you  the  truth,  and  that  she 
was  sure  her  grandmother  would  rather  go  away  than  have 
her  tell  a  story." 

"  She  is  a  noble  little  girl,"  said  Mr.  Dickinson,  "  and 
her  father  shall  be  my  gardener,  and  have  the  house  and 
garden,  and  six  hundred  dollars,  and  another  hundred  be 
sides  for  Jessie's  sake  ;  and  if  you  will  excuse  me,  ma'am, 
I  will  order  my  horse  and  ride  over  to  Mr.  Graham's  at 
once.  I  may  overtake  the  child." 

How  happy  Harriet  looked — how  Mary  jumped  and 
danced — how  William,  springing  into  his  uncle's  arms, 
kissed  him,  declaring  he  loved  him  better  than  he  had  ever 
done  in  his  life,  you  may  all  imagine  without  my  telling. 
As  soon  as  they  were  still  enough  for  me  to  be  heard,  I  begged 
that  Mrs.  Temple  would  excuse  me,  and  that  Mr.  Dickin 
son  would  order  my  carriage  and  permit  me  to  accompany 
him,  as  I  would  not  miss  seeing  Jessie's  joyful  surprise  for 
any  thing. 

The  carriage  was  ordered,  and  in  a  very  few  minutes 
we  were  on  the  road  to  Mr.  Graham's.  We  looked  eager 
ly  at  every  turn  for  Jessie's  straw  bonnet  and  plaided  ging 
ham  dress,  but  nothing  was  seen  of  her.  As  we  could 
not  overtake  her,  and  did  not  wish  to  startle  Mr.  Graham's 
family  by  driving  unexpectedly  to  his  house,  we  deter 
mined  to  leave  the  carriage  at  mine  and  walk  quietly  over. 
We  had  gone  but  a  few  steps  from  my  door  when  we  met 
Mr.  Graham.  He  colored,  on  seeing  Mr.  Dickinson,  and 

9 


98  JESSIE    GRAHAM. 


would  have  turned  off  without  stopping  to  speak  to  us.  I 
was  sure  from  this,  he  had  seen  Jessie  and  heard  her  story, 
and  that  he  felt  a  little  hurt  that  Mr.  Dickinson  should 
have  been  so  angry  with  her,  for  an  accident  which  she 
could  not  help.  Before  he  could  get  out  of  our  way,  Mr. 
Dickinson  was  up  with  him  and  said,  "  Excuse  me  for  stop 
ping  you,  Mr.  Graham,  but  I  have  come  to  apologize  to 
your  little  girl  for  my  anger  to-day,  which  I  find  was  very 
unreasonable.  I  was  told,  sir,  before  she  came  to  my 
house,  that  she  had  been  taught  to  be  careful  in  a  garden. 
I  find  she  has  been  well  taught  in  more  important  things. 
She  is  a  noble  child,  sir.  I  shall  ask  her  to  appoint  my 
gardener,  and  if  she  offer  the  place  to  her  father  I  hope  he 
will  not  refuse  it,  for  I  shall  be  pleased  to  have  in  my 
employment  a  man  so  well  principled  as  I  am  sure  he 
must  be." 

Mr.  Graham  was  quite  confused,  and  stood  a  little  while 
looking  at  Mr.  Dickinson,  as  if  he  did  not  understand  him ; 
then  seizing  his  hand,  he  said  in  a  hoarse  voice,  while  his 
lip  trembled  like  a  child's,  "  God  bless  you,  sir — God  bless 
you.  You  have  saved  me  from  the  greatest  sorrow  I  ever 
had — not  that  I  minded  the  money  so  much,  sir,  for  thank 
God,  I  am  strong  yet,  and  could  work  for  it  again — but 
my  mother,  sir — my  poor  old  mother,  it  would  have  killed 
her,  sir.  I  always  thought  it  would,  and  this  morning  when 
I  summoned  courage  to  tell  her  about  it,  though  she  tried 
to  talk  cheerfully,  I  saw  she  was  struck  down,  and  I  knew 
if  we  went  away,  we  should  leave  her  behind — she  would 
never  live  to  go— and  now,  oh  sir !  I  can  only  say  again, 
God  bless  you !" 

Mr.  Graham  could  not  say  another  word,  for  the  tears 
came  in  spite  of  him,  and  covering  his  face  with  his  hands, 
he  turned  away  from  us,  as  if  he  did  not  like  that  we  should 
see  him  weep.  He  need  not  have  been  ashamed,  for  I  was 
sobbing,  and  even  Mr.  Dickinson's  voice  trembled  as  he 
said,  "  It  is  your  daughter  you  must  bless,  Mr.  Graham  ; 
but  we  will  leave  you  now,  sir,  for  I  am  quite  anxious  to 
make  my  peace  with  Jessie." 

We  both  passed  on,  knowing  that  Mr.  Graham  would 
rather  be  by  himself  while  he  was  so  agitated. 


JESSIE    GRAHAM.  99 


CHAPTER     XII. 

A  GOOD  CONSCIENCE  MAKES  ALL  PLEASANT. 

WHEN  we  asked  at  the  house  for  Jessie,  we  were  told 
she  was  not  there,  having  followed  her  grandmother,  who, 
before  she  returned,  had  walked  out.  On  inquiring  in  what 
direction  they  had  gone,  we  were  shown  a  footpath  which 
led  first  across  a  field  and  then  through  a  wood,  down  to  a 
stream  of  water  on  which  a  saw-mill  had  been  built  many 
years  ago.  The  old  mill  had  been  long  out  of  order,  and 
the  spot  where  it  stood  was  so  shut  in  by  trees,  and  was  so 
still,  that  but  for  the  occasional  sound  of  a  wagon  rumbling 
over  a  bridge  not  far  ofF,  or  the  merry  whoop  of  a  child  at 
play  in  the  wood,  you  might  have  fancied,  when  there,  that 
there  was  not  another  person  within  miles  of  you.  Mr. 
Dickinson  and  I  both  knew  the  place  well,  and  we  walked 
on  quite  briskly,  he  leading  the  way,  for  the  path  was  too 
narrow  for  even  two  persons  to  walk  side  by  side.  We 
were  quite  silent,  for  Mr.  Dickinson  never  talked  much, 
and  I  was  engaged  with  my  own  pleasant  thoughts.  In 
less  than  ten  minutes  we  came  in  sight  of  the  old  mill,  and 
the  open  space  around  it.  In  this  open  space,  near  to  the 
stream,  one  large  old  oak  had  been  left  standing,  the  roots 
of  which  grew  out  of  the  ground  and  then  bent  down  into 
it  again,  so  as  to  form  quite  a  comfortable  seat.  As  we 
came  near  this  tree,  we  heard  a  child's  voice  speaking,  and 
Mr.  Dickinson,  supposing  that  Jessie  was  just  telling  her 
tale  to  her  grandmother,  motioned  to  me  to  stop.  As  I 
was  quite  sure  that  Jessie  would  tell  the  simple  truth,  I 
had  no  hesitation  in  doing  this.  Mrs.  Graham  was  seated 
on  the  root  of  which  I  have  told  you.  Her  face  was 
towards  the  water,  and  she  was  leaning  back  against  the 
body  of  the  tree.  She  had  brought  her  knitting  with  her, 
and  her  needles  were  moving  as  quickly  and  as  constantly 
as  if  she  had  been  in  her  parlor  at  home.  As  we  stood 
we  had  a  good  side  view  of  her,  though  she  could  only  see 
us  by  turning  quite  around.  As  Jessie  sat  on  the  grass  at 


100  JESSIE    GRAHAM. 


her  grandmother's  feet,  she  was  quite  hidden  from  us,  ex 
cept  the  back  of  her  head,  a  part  of  her  dress,  and  one 
hand  which  rested  on  Mrs.  Graham's  lap.  We  soon  found 
that  Jessie's  story  must  have  been  told  before  we  came,  for 
her  voice  ceased  as  I  obeyed  Mr.  Dickinson's  sign  to  stop, 
and  Mrs.  Graham  replied  to  her,  "  Yes,  Jessie,  this  is  one 
of  the  places  that  I  spoke  to  you  of  yesterday  evening  that 
I  love  so  well.  Many  a  pleasant  hour  have  I  passed  with 
your  dear  grandfather  under  these  shady  trees,  talking  of 
old  friends  and  of  our  home  across  the  sea,  and  this  morn- 
ing  when  I  heard  that  we  were  to  go  to  a  new  home  among 
strangers,  I  came  here  to  mourn  that  I  must  leave  it.  But, 
Jessie,  this  was  wrong,  and  now  I  feel  it  was,  for  while  my 
child  and  my  child's  children  are  true  and  honest,  I  have 
much  more  cause  to  be  grateful  than  to  grieve.  If  we 
carry  with  us  good  consciences  we  shall  find  some  pretti- 
ness  in  every  place  and  some  good  in  every  person." 

"  How  is  that,  grandmother  ?  our  goodness  cannot  make 
them  pretty  and  good." 

"It  does  not  make  them  so,  Jessie,  but  it  makes  us  feel 
them  to  be  so." 

"I  do  not  see  how,  grandmother." 

"  Look,  Jessie,  at  the  water,  and  tell  me  what  you  see 
in  it." 

"  The  blue  sky  and  a  white  cloud  sailing  over  it,  and  the 
trees  on  the  other  side — the  water  is  so  clear,  grandmother, 
that  I  can  see  every  leaf." 

"  Well,  Jessie,  when  we  came  here  last  and  the  water 
was  low  and  muddy — do  you  remember  what  you  saw 
then  ?" 

"  I  could  hardly  see  any  thing  at  all,  grandmother,  and 
what  I  did  see  looked  black  and  ugly." 

"  And  yet,  Jessie,  there  was  the  same  bright  bluajsky 
above,  and  the  same  green  trees  on  the  other  side.  \  Now, 
Jessie,  there  is  some  beauty  and  some  goodness  in  every 
thing  God  has  made,  and  he  who  has  a  pure  conscience  is 
like  one  looking  into  a  clear  stream  ;  he  sees  it  all ;  while 
to  him  who  has  a  bad  conscience,  all  things  look  as  you 
say  they  did  in  the  muddy  stream — black  and  ugly."! 

"Now,  grandmother,  I  know  what  you  meaTTTnind  I 
know  it  is  true  too,  for  if  I  had  told  a  story  to-day,  and  so 
father  had  got  that  pretty  place,  I  am  sure  I  never  should 


JESSIE  GRAHAM.  101 


have  liked  it  or  thought  it  pretty  again ;  and  then  I  should 
have  been  afraid  of  Mr.  Dickinson,  and  have  felt  as  if  he 
made  me  tell  the  story,  and  so  I  should  not  have  liked  him. 
But  now,  grandmother,  I  think  he  is  a  very  good  man, 
though  he  is  a  little  cross  sometimes,  and  I  do  not  feel  afraid 
of  him  at  all." 

"  No,  Jessie,  those  who  do  right  are  seldom  afraid,  for 
you  know  the  Bible  says,  '  the  righteous  are  as  bold  as  a 
lion.'  I  am  very  glad,  my  child,  of  all  that  has  happened 
to  you  to-day.  You  may  have  harder  trials  of  your  truth 
than  even  this  before  you  die,  but  you  will  remember  this 
day,  and  how  happy  you  have  felt  for  telling  the  truth ; 
and  you  will  remember,  too,  if  all  the  good  things  on 
earth  are  offered  to  you  as  the  price  of  one  falsehood,  that 
your  old  grandmother  told  you  truth  is  better  than  all,  Jes 
sie, — truth  is  better  than  all.  Will  you  not  remember  this, 
Jessie  ?" 

"  Yes,  grandmother,"  said,  the  child,  in  a  low  earnest 
voice. 

"  So  may  God  bless  you,  my  daughter,"  and  Mrs. 
Graham  laid  her  hand  solemnly  on  Jessie's  head. 

Mr.  Dickinson  and  I  had  been  unwilling  to  interrupt  this 
conversation,  but  he  now  stood  aside  that  I  might  pass  on, 
as  he  thought  they  would  be  less  startled  at  seeing  me  than 
at  seeing  him.  Jessie  was  the  first  to  hear  my  step,  and, 
turning  her  head  quickly,  to  see  me.  She  was  on  her  feet 
in  a  moment,  and  said,  with  a  bright  happy  smile,  "  Oh !  I 
am  so  glad  to  see  you,  ma'am,  for  you  will  hear  me,  and  I 
can  tell  you  how  it  was,  and  then  I  am  sure  you  will  not 
be  angry  with  me." 

"  I  know  all  already,  Jessie,  and  am  only  angry  with 
myself  that  I  should  have  seemed  displeased  with  you  even 
for  a  moment.  No  one  is  angry  with  you  now,  Jessie,  and 
Mr.  Dickinson  has  come  with  me  to  tell  you  himself  that 
he  is  not." 

"  Oh !  ma'am !"  said  Jessie,  with  a  little  start,  though 
she  had  just  said  she  did  not  feel  at  all  afraid  of  him.  She 
looked  around  and  saw  Mr.  Dickinson  already  standing 
close  beside  her. 

"  Do  not  be  afraid,  Jessie,"  said  he,  "  for,  as  your  grand- 
mother  told  you,  those  who  do  right  need  not  fear  any  one. 
If  either  of  us  should  be  afraid,  it  is  I,  for  I  was  very  un- 

9* 


102  JESSIE  GRAHAM. 


just  to  you  in  refusing  to  hear  your  excuses,  when  I  might 
have  known,  from  what  had  already  passed,  that  you  would 
have  told  me  nothing  but  the  truth.  But  I  have  heard  all 
since,  Jessie,  and  have  come  to  make  amends  for  my  in- 
justice." 

How  Mr.  Dickinson  was  to  make  amends  to  Jessie  I 
need  not  repeat  to  you,  for  you  have  heard  it  already. 
But  Jessie's  joy — this  cannot  be  described.  She  was  wild 
with  delight.  Her  grandmother  was  her  first  thought,  and 
as  soon  as  she  understood  Mr.  Dickinson,  she  was  at  her 
side  exclaiming,  "Just  hear,  grandmother — just  hear! 
Father  is  to  have  that  pretty  place  after  all,  and  it  is  just 
by  the  church — and  you  know,  grandmother,  you  wanted 
to  be  by  the  church.  Oh,  grandmother !  do  tell  Mr.  Dick 
inson  how  glad  you  are." 

Mrs.  Graham's  gladness  showed  itself  in  a  way  that 
Jessie  did  not  quite  understand.  Tears  sprang  to  her  eyes 
and  rolled  down  her  cheeks,  while  yet  there  was  a  smile 
upon  her  lips ;  and  when  she  attempted  to  speak,  her  voice 
was  so  choked  with  weeping  that  she  could  say  nothing. 
Surprised  and  disappointed,  Jessie  turned  to  Mr.  Dickin 
son,  and  as  if  to  apologize  for  what  seemed  to  her  so 
strange,  said,  "  Indeed,  sir,  I  am  sure  she  is  very  glad, 
though  she  is  crying." 

"  I  do  not  doubt  it,  Jessie,"  said  Mr.  Dickinson. 

"  I  hope  not,  sir,  I  hope  not,"  said  Mrs.  Graham,  who 
had  by  this  time  recovered  her  voice  ;  "  I  am  both  glad  and 
thankful — first  to  Him,"  looking  up  to  heaven,  "  who  gave 
you  the  heart  to  be  so  kind,  and  then  to  you,  sir,  whom  I 
hope  God  will  bless  for  all  your  goodness." 

Mr.  Dickinson  soon  left  us,  having  an  engagement  at 
home.  He  was  to  take  my  carriage  and  send  Harriot  and 
Mary,  who  had  remained  to  spend  the  day  with  William, 
back  in  it.  I  begged  that  they  might  leave  his  house  in 
time  to  be  at  home  by  five  o'clock,  and  I  invited  Jessie  to 
come  over  at  that  hour  to  meet  them.  I  will  leave  you  to 
imagine  what  a  happy  evening  they  passed,  for  though 
they  said  a  great  deal,  and  it  all  seemed  very  pleasant  at 
the  time,  I  doubt  whether  much  of  it  would  look  very  wise 
when  written  down.  I  will  tell  you,  however,  of  three 
things  which  were  decided  upon.  First — Mary  Mackay 
promised  to  try  to  remember  Mrs.  Graham's  lesson  to  Jessie, 


JESSIE    GRAHAM.  103 


that  "  truth  is  better  than  all,"  especially  as  Jessie  assured 
her  that  she  had  found  it  so  ;  for  that  even  before  she  knew 
of  Mr.  Dickinson's  kind  intentions,  she  had  felt  quite  happy 
at  having  told  the  truth — happier  a  great  deal  than  any 
thing  could  have  made  her  which  she  had  gotten  by  telling 
a  story.  Next,  that  Jessie  was  to  have  Mooly  back  again, 
Harriet  having  begged  her  of  me  as  a  present  for  her  friend. 
Last,  that  when  Mr.  Graham  had  moved,  Harriet  and 
Mary,  and  two  or  three  other  little  girls,  of  whom  the 
first  named  was  "  Blind  Alice,"*  were  to  spend  an  evening 
with  Jessie. 


CHAPTER    XIII. 

THE   HAPPY   PARTY. 

IT  was  the  first  week  in  September  before  Mr.  Graham 
moved,  and  the  beginning  of  the  second  before  his  family 
were  so  settled  as  that  Jessie  could  fulfil  her  promise  of  an 
evening's  entertainment  to  her  young  friends.  They  were 
all  invited  the  day  before  to  come  at  four  o'clock,  that  they 
might  have  an  hour  to  see  all  the  beauties  which  Jessie 
had  discovered,  and  all  the  improvements  which  she  had 
made  in  her  new  home,  and  then,  taking  tea  at  five  o'clock, 
might  all  be  at  their  homes  again  before  the  evening  be 
came  chill.  I  had  a  whispered  request  from  Jessie,  that 
though  there  were  to  be  no  grown  ladies  there,  I  would 
just  come  with  the  children  ;  a  request  which  you  may 
suppose  I  did  not  refuse.  When  the  afternoon  came,  I  took 
Mary  and  Alice  and  two  other  little  girls  with  me  in  the 
carriage,  while  Harriet  rode  her  own  pony.  Jessie  was 
waiting  in  the  piazza  to  welcome  us,  and  William  Temple 
stood  gallantly  ready  to  help  us  from  the  carriage ;  and 
before  the  hour  was  gone,  every  nook  and  corner  of  the 
poultry-yard  and  garden  had  been  explored.  They  were 

*  See  the  story  of  Blind  Alice,  by  Aunt  Kitty. 


104  JESSIE    GRAHAM. 


both  in  very  nice  order,  and  Alice,  as  Jessie  led  her  around 
the  garden,  was  constantly  exclaiming,  "  How  delightful!" 
while  she  inhaled  the  perfume  of  roses  and  pinks,  and 
honeysuckles  and  jessamines.  It  was  too  late  for  straw- 
berries  or  raspberries,  but  when  this  garden  was  made, 
Mr.  Dickinson  had  had  some  fine  peach  and  pear  trees  set 
in  it,  and  these  were  now  covered  with  ripe  fruit,  and  from 
the  grape-vine  hung  large  clusters  of  the  rich  purple  grape. 
The  table  for  the  children  was  spread  under  the  grape- 
arbor,  and  when  at  five  o'clock  they  were  called  to  it, 
they  found, — not  cakes  and  sweetmeats  and  tea, — but  a 
dish  of  warm,  light  biscuits,  of  Mrs.  Graham's  own  making 
— a  bowl  of  soft  peaches  with  cream  and  sugar — baskets 
of  pears  and  grapes,  and  a  cup  of  Mooly's  rich  milk  for 
each  child.  The  sun  was  low,  and  only  a  few  of  its  rays 
found  their  way  through  the  reddish-colored  grape-leaves 
into  the  arbor ;  and,  sure  I  am,  those  rays  never  fell  upon 
a  happier  group.  They  were  still  enjoying  their  feast, 
when  hearing  some  one  speak  to  Mr.  Graham,  who  was 
busy  propping  up  an  overloaded  branch  of  a  pear-tree,  I 
looked  around  and  saw  Mrs.  Temple  and  Mr.  Dickinson 
with  Flora  Temple  in  his  arms,  coming  towards  the  arbor. 

"  Mr.  Graham,"  I  heard  Mr.  Dickinson  say,  "  why  have 
you  not  taken  your  little  visiters  through  the  other  gar 
den  ?" 

"  Why,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Graham,  "  though  they  are  all  very 
good  children,  they  are  not  just  as  used  to  gardens  as  Jes 
sie,  and  they  might  be  careless — but  if  you  would  let  me, 
I  would  like  to  take  that  poor  blind  child  through  the  green 
house,  for  she  is  so  fond  of  flowers,  and  I  doubt  if  she  ever 
smelt  a 'lemon  blossom." 

"  Certainly,  Mr.  Graham,  I  shall  be  pleased  to  have  you 
take  her." 

Mrs.  Temple  took  Flora  from  her  brother  and  joined  the 
little  party  under  the  arbor,  while  Mr.  Dickinson  remained 
outside,  seemingly  engaged  with  Mr.  Graham,  but  I  sus 
pect  much  more  attentive  to  the  merry  voices  of  the  chil 
dren.  At  length  William  called  him  in,  and  I  am  sure  no 
one  who  saw  him  then  for  the  first  time  would  have  called 
him  "  the  cross  Mr.  Dickinson."  I  said  this  to  old  Mrs. 
Graham,  and  her  reply  was,  "  Nothing,  I  think,  ma'am, 
makes  people  so  pleasant  and  good-humored  as  seeing  hap- 


JESSIE    GRAHAM.  105 


py  faces, — especially  when  they  know,  as  Mr.  Dickinson 
does,  that  they  made  the  happiness." 

Our  party  separated  in  good  time,  but  not  before  Mr. 
Graham  had  taken  Alice  to  the  green-house.  She  went 
with  him,  not  knowing  where  he  was  taking  her,  and  was 
so  delighted  with  the  strange  perfume,  and  so  curious  to 
know  from  what  it  came,  that  Mr.  Dickinson,  who  had  fol 
lowed  them,  cut  off  a  cluster  of  flowers  from  a  lemon-tree 
for  her.  After  this,  the  highest  expression  of  satisfaction 
with  any  thing  which  Alice  ever  gave,  was  to  say,  "It  is 
almost  as  pleasant  as  Mr.  Dickinson's  green-house." 

When  William  was  leading  me  to  the  carriage,  he  beg 
ged  me  to  put  my  head  down,  as  he  wanted  to  tell  me  a 
secret.  I  did  so,  and  he  whispered,  "  I  am  coming  to  spend 
Christmas  with  my  uncle,  and  I  told  him  I  wanted  to  see  a 
play  acted,  for  I  never  saw  one  ;  and  he  says  I  shall  see 
one  then  and  act  in  it  too,  and  he  will  write  it  himself,  and 
it  is  to  be  called,  "All  for  Truth,  or  the  Flower  well 
Lost." 

That  I  shall  have  an  invitation  to  see  this  play  I  have 
little  doubt ;  so  my  next  story  for  you  may  be  of  Christmas 
merry-making  at  Flowerhill — at  the  cross  Mr.  Dickinson's. 
Let  this  teach  my  little  readers,  that  if  children  are  good 
and  pleasant  themselves,  they  will  seldom  find  any  one  cross 
to  them  long. 


THE  END. 


FLORENCE    ARNOTT: 


OR, 


IS  SHE  GENEROUS? 


FLORENCE   ARNOTT. 


CHAPTER  I. 

A   WINTER    MORNING. 

WHEN  last  I  took  leave  of  myyoung  friends,  it  was  au 
tumn,  and  we  were  looking  forward  to  ChristnTas  enter 
tainments  at  Flowerhill,  where  a  play  written  by  Mr. 
Dickinson  himself  was  to  be  acted.  Those  of  you  who 
have  read  Jessie  Graham,  may  remember  that  I  thought  it 
probable  my  next  story  for  you  would  be  of  these  enter 
tainments. 

Mr.  Dickinson  kept  his  promise.  The  play  was  writ 
ten  ;  and  a  fortnight  before  Christmas,  came  William  Tem 
ple,  full  of  joyful  expectation.  The  day  after  his  arrival 
he  rode  over  with  his  uncle  to  see  me,  and  to  invite  Har 
riet  and  Mary  to  be  at  Flowerhill  the  next  morning,  to 
hear  the  play  read,  and  to  receive  their  parts,  for  parts  they 
were  both  to  have.  Soon  after  Mr.  Dickinson  and  Wil 
liam  left  us,  the  sky  was  overcast  with  heavy  clouds,  which, 
as  evening  approached,  became  more  and  more  wild  and 
dark.  I  predicted  a  snow-storm,  and  Harriet  and  Mary 
went  to  sleep  with  little  hope  of  being  able  to  fulfil  their 
engagement. 

The  snow-storm  came,  but  it  lasted  only  a  few  hours  of 
the  night,  and  the  next  morning's  sun  rose  clear  and  bright. 
Bright  indeed,  dazzlingly  bright,  as  its  rays  fell  on  the 
pure,  white  snow  with  which  the  whole  ground  was  cover 
ed,  or  shone  through  the  icicles,  with  which  every  tree  was 
hung,  making  them  look  like  glittering  diamonds,  in  each 
of  which  there  seemed  a  tiny  rainbow. 

I  had  ordered  the  carriage  at  an  early  hour,  and  we  had 
scarcely  breakfasted  when  the  merry  jingle  of  the  sleigh- 
bells  told  that  it  was  at  the  door.  Even  the  horses  seemed 
10 


110  FLORENCE    ARNOTT. 

gayer  than  usual,  and  whirled  us  along  so  rapidly,  that 
had  not  the  reins  been  in  the  hands  of  Henry,  whom  I 
knew  to  be  the  steadiest  and  most  careful  coachman  in  the 
country,  I  should  have  been  half  frightened.  William  saw 
us  from  the  parlor  window,  and  had  the  door  open  for  us 
as  soon  as  we  were  out  of  the  sleigh.  We  were  just  cold 
enough  to  enjoy  the  warm  parlor ;  and  as  we  drew  close 
to  the  blazing  wood  fire,  Mary  exclaimed,  "  Aunt  Kitty,  do 
you  not  wish  it  was  always  winter  ?" 

"  No,  Mary,  for  I  love  spring  flowers  and  summer  and 
autumn  fruits." 

"  Oh  !  I  had  forgotten  them,"  said  Mary,  "  but  I  am  very 
glad  there  is  a  winter  too." 

"  So  am  I,  Mary,  very  glad,  and  very  thankful  to  Him 
who  gives  us  the  varying  pleasures  which  make  each  sea 
son  welcome." 

We  were  interrupted  by  Mr.  Dickinson,  who  came  in 
with  the  play.  He  read  it  for  us,  and  I  am  sure  no  play 
was  ever  heard  with  more  pleasure.  Harriet  and  Mary 
received  their  parts,  and  were  now  quite  impatient  to  get 
home,  that  they  might  begin  to  study  them. 

This  pleasant  morning  visit  was  all  which  I  saw  of  the 
Christmas  entertainments  at  Flowerhill,  for  on  my  return 
home,  I  found  a  carriage  waiting  for  me,  and  a  letter  re 
questing  me  to  come  to  a  very  dear  friend,  who  was  both  ill 
and  in  trouble,  and  needed  a  nurse  and  a  comforter.  You 
may  be  sure  that  I  made  no  delay  in  complying  with  this 
request ;  but  before  I  tell  you  any  thing  of  my  visit,  I 
would  give  you  some  account  of  my  friend,  Mrs.  Arnott, 
and  of  her  daughter  Florence,  as  she  had  appeared  to  me 
about  eighteen  months  before,  when  I  had  spent  some  weeks 
with  her  mother  under  very  different  circumstances. 


CHAPTER  II. 


THE    VISIT. 


MRS.  ARNOTT  was  younger  than  I,  yet  not  so  much 
younger  but  that  we  had  been  playmates  in  childhood.   As 


FLORENCE    ARNOTT.  Ill 

we  grew  older  we  continued  warm  friends.  When  she 
married,  I  rejoiced  in  her  happy  prospects,  and  found  but 
one  thing  in  Mr.  Arnott  I  would  have  desired  to  change — 
he  lived  thirty  miles  from  me,  and  this  was  felt  as  a  wide 
separation  between  friends  who  had  been  accustomed  to 
meet  every  day.  I  soon  found  that  the  separation  was  to 
be  much  greater.  Mr.  Arnott  liked  travelling,  had  a  large 
fortune,  and  little  to  do.  He  took  his  wife  to  England ; 
and  after  travelling  in  England,  Scotland,  and  Wales,  they 
passed  over  to  the  continent  of  Europe,  and  having  seen 
whatever  was  of  most  interest  in  France,  Switzerland, 
and  Germany,  went  into  Italy,  and  spent  more  than  a 
year  in  the  city  of  Florence.  Here  their  little  girl  was 
born,  and  received  her  name  in  remembrance  of  a  home 
which  they  had  found  very  agreeable.  When  Florence 
was  about  two  years  old,  her  father  and  mother  return 
ed  to  America.  They  came  in  the  autumn,  and  joyfully 
as  I  welcomed  back  my  friend,  I  soon  began  to  fear  that 
she  would  not  be  able  to  spend  many  winters  with  us. 
Her  constitution  had  always  been  delicate,  and  her  long 
abode  in  the  soft,  warm  climate  of  Italy,  seemed  to  have 
unfitted  her  completely  for  the  endurance  of  our  rough  and 
cold  northern  winters.  The  first  winter  she  went  out  very 
seldom,  the  second  not  at  all,  and  the  third  she  showed 
symptoms  of  serious  illness  so  early,  that  her  physician  ad 
vised  Mr.  Arnott  to  take  her  at  once  to  a  more  southern 
climate.  They  went  to  Florida,  and  their  delightful  coun 
try  place  was  again  let  for  several  years,  while  they  spent 
their  winters  at  the  south  and  their  summers  in  travelling 
through  the  middle  and  northern  states. 

In  this  way,  Mrs.  Arnott  seemed  gradually  to  acquire 
more  vigorous  health,  yet  it  was  not  till  Florence  was  more 
than  ten  years  old,  that  they  returned  to  their  own  home 
with  some  hope  of  being  able  to  remain  at  it  during  the 
whole  year.  As  soon  as  they  began  to  feel  themselves 
settled,  Mrs.  Arnott  wrote  to  ask  a  visit  from  me,  request 
ing  that  I  would  bring  my  nieces,  Harriet  Armand  and 
Mary  Mackay,  with  me.  She  was  very  urgent  in  this  last 
request,  saying,  that  she  hoped  to  benefit  her  little  Florence 
by  the  society  of  children  of  nearly  her  own  age,  who  had 
been  as  carefully  educated  as  she  knew  Harriet  and  Mary 
had  been.  I  will  copy  for  you  a  part  of  my  friend's  letter, 


112  FLORENCE    ARNOTT. 

from  which  I  gained  some  knowledge  of  the  disposition  of 
Florence,  even  before  I  made  this  visit. 

"  You  will  soon  see,"  wrote  Mrs.  Arnott,  "  that  my  little 
girl's  education  has  been  sadly  neglected.  By  her  educa 
tion,  I  do  not  mean  what  is  ordinarily  taught  in  schools. 
Wherever  we  have  made  our  home,  even  for  a  few  months, 
we  have  procured  for  her  the  best  teachers  we  could  find, 
and  as  she  is  a  child  of  quick  mind,  she  is  quite  as  well  in- 
formed  as  most  children  of  her  age.  But  to  the  education 
of  her  heart,  which  I  know  you  will  think  with  me  of  far 
more  importance,  no  attention  has  been  paid.  Her  father's 
extreme  indulgence  to  this  only  child,  my  feeble  health, 
and  our  roving  life,  have  left  her  so  unrestrained,  that  I 
begin  to  fear  she  is  becoming  very  self-willed.  Yet  her 
temper  is  naturally  so  amiable,  and  her  feelings  so  affec 
tionate,  she  is  so  anxious  to  please  those  she  loves,  and  so 
grieved  at  the  least  appearance  of  blame  from  them,  that  I 
hope  it  will  not  be  difficult  to  correct  her  faults." 

As  I  felt  much  interested  in  this  little  girl,  and  thought, 
with  her  mother,  that  the  association  with  other  and  more 
carefully  taught  children  might  be  serviceable  to  her,  I  de 
termined  at  once  to  accept  the  invitation  for  Harriet  and 
myself,  and  if  my  brother  and  Mrs.  MUckay  would  consent, 
for  Mary  too.  Indeed,  I  hoped  more  advantage  for  Flor 
ence  from  the  companionship  of  Mary  than  of  Harriet. 
Harriet  was  so  gentle,  and  would  yield  to  her  young  friend 
so  quietly,  that  Florence  would  seldom  discover  from  her 
how  much  she  was  yielding,  and  how  unreasonable  her 
own  exactions  were.  But  Mary  had  a  strong  will,  and 
though  she  had  been  taught  that  she  must  on  many  occa 
sions  submit  to  the  will  of  others,  it  was  always  done  with 
a  very  great  effort.  I  was  quite  sure,  therefore,  that  Flor 
ence  would  know  whenever  Mary  yielded  a  point  to  her, 
and  moreover,  that  she  would  be  very  plainly  informed  if 
Mary  thought  her  demands  unreasonable. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Mackay  readily  consented  that  Mary  should 
go  with  me,  and  Mary  was  always  pleased  with  the  pros 
pect  of  a  visit,  especially  if  the  visit  could  be  made  with 
Harriet  and  Aunt  Kitty.  Of  my  designs  for  the  improve 
ment  of  Florence,  I  did  not,  of  course,  say  any  thing  to 
either  of  my  nieces. 

Our  visit  was  made  in  June,  when  it  was  too  warm  to 


FLORENCE    ARNOTT.  113 

travel  in  midday,  so,  rising  very  early,  we  were  five  miles 
from  home  before  the  sun  rose ;  and  before  it  became  un 
comfortably  warm,  had  gone  seventeen  miles,  to  a  little 
village  where  we  were  to  dine,  rest  our  horses,  and  remain 
quiet  till  the  afternoon  became  cool,  when  fourteen  miles 
more  of  travelling  would  bring  us  to  Mr.  Arnott's.  We 
arrived  there  just  about  sunset.  Florence  was  playing  on 
the  green  before  the  door  with  a  little  dog,  which  ran  jump 
ing  and  barking  beside  her,  when  the  carriage  swept  round 
a  turn  of  the  road,  which  brought  us  in  sight  of  the  house. 

Florence  had  travelled  too  much,  and  been,  therefore, 
too  much  accustomed  to  new  faces,  to  run  away  from  us, 
even  had  we  been  strangers,  and  we  were  not  strangers, 
for  she  had  seen  us  all  in  the  preceding  summer,  when  her 
mother  had  made  a  visit  of  a  few  days  in  our  neighborhood  ; 
so,  instead  of  running  away,  she  called  out,  on  seeing  us, 
"  Papa,  mamma,  here  they  come  !"  and  opening  the  gate, 
stood  ready  to  receive  us,  with  a  face  full  of  smiles. 

Bed-time  soon  follows  sunset  in  summer,  at  least  for  chil 
dren.  Yet  it  came  not  too  soon  this  evening  for  Harriet 
and  Mary,  who  were  tired  by  their  thirty  miles  travelling. 
But  Florence  thought  it  very  unkind  in  them  to  leave  her 
so  soon  "this  first  evening."  Her  entreaties  were  so  ur 
gent  that  they  would  stay  a  little  while  longer,  that  her 
young  companions  would  have  found  some  difficulty  in  get 
ting  away  without  aid  from  me.  Taking  Florence's  hand, 
as  she  was  endeavoring  to  hold  Harriet  and  Mary  back 
from  following  the  servant,  who  was  going  to  show  them 
their  bed,  I  said,  "  Did  you  hear  me  tell  those  little  girls 
that  they  must  go  to  bed  ?" 

"Yes,"  she  replied  ;  "but  they  have  been  here  such  a 
little  time,  and  it  is  so  early  yet ;  I  only  want  them  to  stay 
a  little  longer." 

"  I  do  not  doubt  they  would  try  to  oblige  you,  though 
they  are  tired  and  sleepy,  but  they  are  accustomed  to  do 
just  as  I  wish  them  ;  and  I  wish  them  to  go  to  bed  at  once. 
You  will  have  a  long  summer's  day  for  talk  and  play  to 
morrow,  and  only  a  short  summer's  night  for  sleep.  So 
now  bid  them  good-night ;  and  I  think  you  had  better  go 
too,  for  I  shall  call  you  up  very  early  in  the  morning,  as  I 
expect  you  to  show  me  the  garden  and  the  dairy  before 
breakfast." 

10* 


114  FLORENCE    ARNOTT. 

"  And  the  fish-pond,  too,"  said  Florence,  "the  fish-pond, 
too." 

"  Is  there  a  fish-pond,  too  ?  Well,  all  these  will  require 
us  to  rise  early, — shall  I  bid  you  good-night,  too  ?" 

"  Yes ;  I  may  as  well  go,"  said  she,  looking  around  and 
seeing  that  Harriet  and  Mary  were  already  gone. 

So  closed  the  first  evening  of  our  visit. 


CHAPTER    III. 

THE    SWING. 

THE  morning  was  cloudless,  and  the  garden  looked  beau 
tifully,  with  its  leaves  and  flowers  glittering  with  dew- 
drops.  But  I  only  saw  it  from  my  window,  for  though 
Harriet  and  Mary,  starting  from  sleep  at  the  first  sound  of 
my  voice,  sprang  eagerly  up,  and,  dressing  in  haste,  waited 
impatiently  for  the  tap  of  Florence,  which  was  to  summon 
us  to  our  morning  walk ;  they  waited  in  vain.  Florence 
could  not  be  awoke,  or  when  awake,  could  not  be  induced 
to  rise ;  and  breakfast  was  announced,  and  we  were  all 
seated  at  table  before  she  made  her  appearance.  She  looked 
far  more  discontented  and  dull  than  those  whom  she  had 
disappointed.  This  did  not  surprise  me,  for  I  knew  she 
could  not  feel  very  well  pleased  with  herself;  and  those 
who  are  not,  are  seldom  pleased  with  others. 

"  Well,  Florence,"  said  her  father,  "  so  you  have  slept 
so  long  that  your  friends  have  lost  this  fine  morning  in 
waiting  for  you,  and  have  seen  nothing  of  all  you  promised 
last  evening  to  show  them." 

Florence  colored,  hung  her  head,  and  replied  in  rather 
*  sulky  tone,  "  I  could  not  wake  myself." 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Arnott,  "  but—" 

"Come,  Mr.  Arnott,"  said  I,  interrupting  him,  "the 
disappointment  is  past — we  have  many  other  pleasures  in 
store  for  to-day,  we  can  afford  to  postpone  this  one ;  and  I 
doubt  not  Florence  will  be  ready  in  time  to-morrow.  To 
secure  it  I  will  call  her  myself.  May  I,  Florence  ?" 


FLORENCE    ARNOTT.  115 

She  looked  pleased,  and  replied  promptly,  "  Yes,  ma'am." 

I  had  two  reasons  for  interrupting  Mr.  Arnott.  One  was, 
I  thought  Florence  was  already  so  much  grieved  and  dis 
appointed  that  it  was  useless  to  distress  her  farther.  An 
other,  and  perhaps  a  more  important  reason  was,  that  I 
wished  to  serve  this  little  girl  by  helping  her  to  correct  her 
faults  ;  and  I  felt  that  in  order  to  be  able  to  do  this,  it  was 
quite  necessary  that  she  should  learn  to  love  me,  to  place 
confidence  in  my  kindness,  and  take  pleasure  in  my  society. 
Now  you  will  readily  see  that  she  would  not  be  likely  to 
do  any  of  these  things,  if  through  me  she  were  made  to  feel 
uncomfortably. 

After  breakfast,  Mr.  Arnott  invited  the  children  to  take 
a  walk  with  him,  adding,  "  I  have  something  to  show  you, 
which  even  Florence  has  not  seen." 

"  Which  I  have  not  seen  ?  What  can  it  be  ?  Do,  papa, 
tell  me  what  it  is,"  said  Florence,  coming  back  from  the 
door,  which  she  had  reached  on  her  way  for  her  bonnet. 

"  You  will  know  in  a  few  minutes,"  said  Mr.  Arnott, 
"  that  is,  if  you  will  put  on  your  bonnet  and  come  with  me, 
instead  of  keeping  us  all  waiting.  See,  Harriet  and  Mary 
are  ready,"  pointing  to  them  as  they  now  entered  the  par 
lor. 

Florence  ran  off  for  her  bonnet,,  saying,  however,  as  she 
went,  "  I  will  ask  nursey — if  she  knows,  I  am  sure  she 
will  tell  me." 

"  She  does  not  know,"  Mr.  Arnott  called  out. 

As  I  love  pleasant  surprises,  especially  when  children 
are  to  enjoy  the  pleasure,  this  little  mystery  was  a  tempta 
tion  to  join  the  walkers  too  strong  for  me  to  resist,  so  before 
Florence  came  back,  I  was  ready  too,  and  went  off  as  full 
of  curiosity  and  pleased  expectation  as  any  of  the  party. 
Mr.  Arnott  led  us  through  the  garden  into  the  orchard  be 
yond  it.  As  we  entered  the  garden,  Florence  said,  "  Now 
I  know  what  it  is,  papa — you  are  going  to  show  us  a  new 
flower." 

"  Indeed,  I  am  not,  Florence." 

As  we  passed  into  the  orchard,  she  suddenly  exclaimed, 
"  Now  I  have  it,  papa,  now  I  have  it ;  the  cherries  we 
were  looking  at  the  other  day  are  ripe,  and  you  are  going 
to  get  us  some." 

Her  father  smiled,  but  said  nothing. 


116  FLORENCE    ARNOTT. 

"  That  is  it,  papa,  is  it  not  ?" 

"Wait  a  few  minutes,  Florence,  and  you  will  see." 

"  Well,  I  give  it  up,  now,  for  we  have  passed  all  the 
cherry-trees." 

Mr.  Arnott  turned  towards  a  wood  which  skirted  the  or 
chard  on  the  north,  and  long  before  we  reached  it  the  se 
cret  was  told ;  for,  on  the  stoutest  branch  of  a  magnificent 
oak,  which  he  had,  by  removing  his  fence,  enclosed  within 
the  orchard,  hung  a  swing — a  new  and  strongly  made 
swing,  with  a  very  comfortable  seat.  We  all  quickened 
our  pace  as  we  came  in  sight  of  it,  and  many  were  the  ex 
clamations  of  admiration  and  delight  from  the  children. 

"  Such  a  beautiful  swing,  under  such  a  cool,  shady  tree, 
how  delightful !" 

Florence  jumped,  danced,  clapped  her  hands,  and  at 
length  darted  off,  and,  bounding  into  the  swing,  called  to 
her  father,  "  Come  quick,  quick,  papa,  and  swing  me." 

"  After  I  have  swung  your  friends,  my  dear." 

Florence  looked  disappointed,  and  both  Harriet  and  Ma 
ry  drew  back,  saying,  "  Oh  no,  sir  !  Swing  Florence  first." 

Mr.  Arnott  saw  that  to  persist  in  his  politeness  would 
distress  them,  so  saying,  "  I  will  swing  you  twelve  times, 
Florence,"  he  touched  the  swing,  and  away  it  rose,  rapidly 
yet  steadily,  through  the  air,  higher  and  higher  each  time, 
till,  as  Mr.  Arnott  counted  twelve,  Florence  shrieked,  half 
with  fear  and  half  with  delight.  Mr.  Arnott  caught  the 
swing  as  it  descended,  and  stopped  it. 

"  Oh  papa  !  is  that  twelve  ?" 

"  Yes,  Florence  ;  did  you  not  hear  me  count  ?" 

"  Well,  just  once  more,  papa." 

Mr.  Arnott  stooped  and  whispered  to  her — she  reddened, 
and  getting  down  slowly,  said,  "  Now,  Harriet,  you  get  in." 

Harriet  got  in,  and  counting  for  herself,  sprang  out  as 
the  swing  descended  for  the  twelfth  time.  Mary  had  her 
turn,  and  looked  so  well  pleased,  that,  had  her  father  been 
in  Mr.  Arnott's  place,  she  would,  I  doubt  not,  have  said, 
like  Florence,  "  Just  once  more,  papa."  As  she  came  out 
Florence  again  sprang  in. 

"  Now,  papa,  once,  only  once— or  twice,"  she  added,  as 
her  father  extended  his  arm  at  her  entreaty. 

But  after  giving  one  toss  to  the  swing,  Mr.  Arnott  turned 
resolutely  away,  saying,  "  You  are  never  satisfied,  Flor- 


FLORENCE    ARNOTT.  117 

ence,  but  I  will  not  indulge  you  any  farther  this  morning, 
for  the  sun  is  getting  too  warm  for  any  of  you  to  be  here 
longer — in  the  cool  of  the  evening  we  will  try  it  again." 

Florence  looked  not  very  well  pleased,  but  as  we  all 
turned  towards  the  house,  she  came  out  and  followed  us. 


CHAPTER   IV. 

GIVING.     ; 

I  DO  not  intend  to  give  you  a  history  of  what  was  done 
by  the  children  each  day  of  our  visit,  for  this  would  make 
a  very  long  story.  When  it  was  fine  weather  they  helped 
the  gardener,  as  they  said,  or  hindered  him,  as  Tie  sometimes 
complained — walked  in  the  orchard,  looking  for  ripe  fruit 
— or  swung,  and  on  a  cool  evening  Mr.  Arnott  would  some 
times  take  them  out  on  the  river  in  a  pretty  little  sailing 
boat,  or  drive  them  two  or  thee  miles  in  a  light,  open  car- 
riage.  When  it  rained,  they  overhauled  Florence's  toys, 
of  which  there  were  trunks  full,  or  amused  themselves  with 
her  books.  They  seemed  to  agree  very  well,  at  least  we 
heard  of  no  disagreements,  though  I  fancied,  towards  the 
latter  part  of  our  stay,  that  I  sometimes  saw  a  cloud  on 
Mary's  brow,  but  I  asked  no  questions,  and  it  passed  off 
without  any  complaint. 

One  afternoon,  when  we  had  been  there  about  a  week, 
as  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Arnott  and  I  were  seated  in  the  piazza 
enjoying  the  pleasant  breeze,  the  children  rushed  in  from 
the  garden,  seeming  very  anxious  to  give  us  some  informa 
tion,  which,  as  each  tried  to  speak  louder  than  the  others,  it 
was  quite  impossible  for  some  time  for  us  to  understand. 
At  length,  by  hearing  a  little  from  each,  we  made  out  that 
there  were  ripe  strawberries  in  the  neighborhood — really 
ripe — for  the  gardener  had  seen  them,  and  he  said  they 
were  as  large  around  as  his  thumb. 

"  And  you  want  me  to  send  for  some,"  Mr.  Arnott  be 
gan, — but,  "  Oh  no,  papa !"  "  Oh  no,  sir !"  every  voice 
again  exclaimed,  "  we  want  to  go  for  them." 


118  FLORENCE    ARNOTT. 

"  Go  for  them  ! — and  pray,  young  ladies,  how  will  you 
go  ? — am  I  to  drive  you  ?" 

"  Oh  no,  papa  !  we  want  to  walk  ;  and  Andrew" — this 
was  the  name  of  Mr.  Arnott's  gardener — "  says  they  will 
let  us  go  into  the  garden  and  pick  them  ourselves — and  you 
know,  mamma,  Eliza  can  go  with  us  and  carry  our  bas 
kets,"  added  Florence,  anticipating  her  mother's  objection 
to  their  going  without  some  attendant  to  a  place  a  mile  off. 

And  so  it  was  arranged,  and  in  a  few  minutes  they  set 
out,  Eliza  carrying  the  baskets,  and  each  taking  a  shilling 
to  pay  for  her  berries.  It  seems  they  had  gone  only  about 
half-way,  when  they  met  a  poor  woman  with  a  sick  child 
in  her  arms,  sitting  to  rest  herself  in  the  shade  by  the  side 
of  the  road.  The  woman  looked  so  pale  and  sad  that  the 
servant,  Eliza,  who  was  a  kindhearted  girl,  spoke  to  her, 
and  asked  what  was  the  matter  ? 

"  Sick  and  weary,"  said  the  poor  woman. 

"  But  how  did  you  come  to  be  in  the  road  here  by  your 
self? — and  where  are  you  going?"  asked  Florence. 

"  Why  you  see,  Miss,  I  have  been  to  the  city,  where  a 
great  many  people  told  me  that  I  might  make  twice  as 
much  money  without  slaving  myself  to  death,  as  I  was 
doing,  for  the  children ;  and  so  I  took  this  baby  and  went ; 
but  the  baby  fell  sick,  and  indeed  I  think  the  city  air  did 
not  suit  either  of  us,  for  I  fell  sick  too,  and  could  not  work 
at  all,  and  I  longed  so  to  get  home  and  smell  the  country 
air,  and  see  the  other  children  and  friends'  faces,  instead 
of  strangers,  strangers  always,  that,  as  soon  as  I  could 
walk,  I  set  out,  and  thank  God,  I  have  got  only  eight  miles 
more  to  walk,  for  I  live  at  M ." 

"  But  why  do  you  walk  ?"  asked  the  children. 

"  Ah,  young  ladies,  poor  folks  that  have  not  any  money 
to  pay  for  rides,  must  walk.  As  long  as  my  money  held 
out  I  got  a  ride  on  a  cart  now  and  then  for  a  sixpence, 
or  a  shilling,  and  that  was  a  great  help ;  but  I  have  not 
even  a  sixpence  left  now  to  buy  a  bit  of  bread  if  I  was 
ever  so  hungry." 

In  a  moment  Harriet's  shilling  was  in  the  poor  woman's 
hand  ;  Mary's  followed.  She  burst  into  tears,  and  thanked 
them  again  and  again.  Florence  looked  at  her  shilling, 
then  at  the  woman,  and  said,  "  I  have  half  a  dollar  at 
home,  and  that  is  four  times  as  much  as  a  shilling,  you 


FLORENCE    ARNOTT.  119 

know,  and  if  you  will  wait  here  till  I  have  got  the  strawber 
ries  I  am  going  for,  you  can  go  back  with  me  and  I  will 
give  you  that." 

"  Thank  you,  my  dear  young  lady,"  said  the  poor  crea 
ture,  "  but  I  hope  to  get  home  this  evening,  and  that  I  shall 
not  do  if  I  stop  and  go  back  on  my  way — yet,"  she  added, 
"  half  a  dollar  is  a'  great  deal.  I  wish  I  were  not  so 
tired." 

"  Florence,"  cried  Harriet  and  Mary,  both  at  once,  "  I 
will  go  back  for  the  money  if  you  will  tell  me  where  it  is, 
and  the  poor  woman  can  rest  here  till  I  come  back." 

"  My  good  woman,"  said  Eliza,  "  you  are  not  fit  to 
walk  or  even  to  ride  eight  miles  to-night.  Now  our  gar 
dener's  wife  has  a  spare  room  in  her  house,  and  she  is  a 
kind  woman,  and  will  do  every  thing  she  can  to  make  you 
comfortable  ;  and  to-morrow  morning,  I  dare  say,  the  gar 
dener  can  get  you  a  lift  on  some  farmer's  cart  all  the  way 
to  M.  So  now,  instead  of  waiting  here,  you  had  better  go 
back  at  once,  and  Miss  Florence  can  give  you  the  half  dol 
lar  when  she  comes  home." 

"  Yes,  I  will  give  you  the  half  dollar,"  said  Florence, 
"  and  that,"  she  repeated,  turning  to  Mary,  "  is  four  times 
as  much  as  a  shilling,  you  know." 

So  it  was  arranged — the  woman  went  back — the  gar 
dener's  wife  accommodated  her — the  gardener  found  a  farm 
er  going  to  M.  the  next  morning,  who  promised  to  take 
her  there  on  his  cart — and  when  Florence  came  home  she 
gave  her  the  half  dollar,  which,  being  four  times  as  much 
as  a  shilling,  evidently  made  her,  in  her  own  opinion,  and 
in  Mary's  too,  four  times  as  generous  as  Harriet  or  herself. 


CHAPTER   V. 

GENEROSITY. 


A  FEW  days  after  the  events  related  in  the  last  chapter, 
Mary  came  into  my  room  to  show  me  a  basket  and  a  doll's 
dress  which  Florence  had  given  her.  They  were  neither 


120  FLORENCE  ARNOTT. 

of  them  quite  new,  but  they  were  not  at  all  the  worse  for 
wear,  and  Mary  was  quite  delighted  with  them,  and  with 
Florence  for  giving  them.  "Aunt  Kitty,  I  do  love  Flor 
ence,"  said  she,  "  she  is  so  generous." 

"Is  she,  my  dear  ?"  said  I,  in  a  very  quiet  tone. 

"  Why  yes,  Aunt  Kitty,  do  you  not  see  what  she  has 
given  me  ? — and  she  has  a  book  for  Harriet,  a  very  pretty 
book,  which  she  means  to  give  her  when  she  is  going 
away, — and  she  gives  away  money ;  you  know  she  gave 
half  a  dollar  to  that  poor  woman  the  other  day." 

"  All  this,  Mary,  does  not  prove  that  Florence  is  gener 
ous." 

"  Well,  I  do  not  see,  Aunt  Kitty,  how  anybody  can  be 
more  generous  than  to  give  away  their  playthings,  and 
their  books,  and  their  money." 

At  this  moment  Harriet  entered  the  room.  Mary,  from 
thinking  that  I  was  opposed  to  her  in  opinion,  had  become 
very  much  in  earnest  on  the  subject,  and  she  called  out, 
"  I  am  very  glad  you  are  come,  Harriet.  Only  think,  Aunt 
Kitty  does  not  think  Florence  is  generous.  Now  Harriet, 
is  she  not  generous — is  she  not  very  generous  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know,  Mary, — sometimes  she  is,  but  I  did  not 
think  she  was  the  other  day,  when  she  would  not  give  her 
ripe  plum  to  that  poor  sick  child  who  wanted  it  so  much." 

Mary  colored;  "But,  Harriet,  I  am  sure  the  wooden 
horse  she  gave  him  was  worth  more  than  a  dozen  plums." 

"  I  dare  say  it  was,  Mary,  but  the  child  did  not  want 
that." 

Mary  became  now  a  little  angry,  as  she  was  apt  to  do 
when  she  could  not  convince  those  with  whom  she  was 
arguing. 

"  Well,  Harriet,  I  think  it  is  very  unkind  in  you  to  speak 
so  of  Florence,  and  to  say  she  is  not  generous,  when  she 
thinks  so  much  of  you." 

"  Stop,  stop,  Mary,"  said  I,  "  you  are  now  as  unjust  to 
Harriet  as  you  accuse  her  of  being  to  Florence.  She  did 
not  say  that  Florence  was  not  generous,  but  only  that  she 
had  not  made  up  her  mind  on  that  subject,  that  she  had 
not  seen  enough  to  convince  her  that  she  was ;  and  this, 
remember,  was  all  which  I  said.  Florence  may  be  as 
generous  as  you  think  her,  but  you  have  not  told  me  enough 
to  convince  me  of  it.  When  we  have  known  her  longer 


FLORENCE  ARNOTT.  121 

we  shall  all  be  able  to  judge  better  what  she  is.  In  the 
mean  time  I  am  very  glad  you  like  her,  for  I  am  very  much 
interested  in  her  myself." 

"  Well,  Aunt  Kitty,  I  do  like  her,"  said  Mary,  in  a  very 
energetic  manner,  "  and  I  am  sure  I  shall  never  be  any 
better  able  to  judge  her  than  I  am  now." 

I  made  no  reply,  and  the  conversation  ended. 

Mary  did  not  forget  it,  however,  nor  feel  quite  satisfied 
with  its  termination,  for  the  next  morning,  as  I  was  sitting 
in  my  room  alone,  she  came  in,  and  after  moving  about  a 
little  while,  seated  herself  by  me  and  said,  "  Aunt  Kitty,  I 
want  to  ask  you  a  question." 

"  Well,  my  dear,  what  is  it  ?" 

"  I  want  to  know  when  you  do  think  a  person  is  gener 
ous  ?" 

"  A  person  is  generous,  Mary,  when  he  gives  up  his 
own  gratification  or  advantage  for  the  gratification  or  ad 
vantage  of  another." 

"  Well,  that  was  what  I  always  thought,  Aunt  Kitty — 
and  now  I  am  sure  a  little  girl  does  that  when  she  gives 
away  her  books  and  her  playthings,  and  her  money,  does 
she  not  ?" 

"  When  a  little  girl  becomes  tired  of  books  and  play 
things,  Mary,  they  cease  to  amuse  her,  do  they  not  ?" 

"Yes,  Aunt  Kitty,"  said  Mary,  "  if  she  .get  tired  of 
them, — but  I  never  get  tired  of  books  and  playthings  if 
they  are  pretty." 

"  Perhaps  you  may  not,  my  dear,"  I  replied,  "  but  some 
other  little  girls  do,  and  those  little  girls  are  most  apt  to  do 
so  who  have  the  greatest  number  of  such  things.  Now, 
should  they  give  away  those  of  which  they  are  tired — 
which  had  ceased  to  amuse  them— could  you  say  they  had 
given  up  a  gratification  ?" 

"  No,  Aunt  Kitty,"  said  Mary,  speaking  very  slowly, 
for  she  was  beginning  to  understand  my  meaning. 

"  Then  this  would  not  be  what  we  mean  by  being  gener 
ous?" 

"  No,  Aunt  Kitty, — but  money — you  know  nobody  gets 
tired  of  money — suppose  a  little  girl  gives  that." 

"  Well,  Mary,  suppose  she  gives  money,  and  that  she 
knows  when  giving  it  that  some  kind  friend  will  replace 
it,  or  indeed,  give  her  a  yet  larger  sum  to  encourage  what 
11 


122  FLORENCE  ARNOTT. 

he  thinks  a  good  feeling — could  you  say  she  had  given  up 
a  gratification — would  this  prove  her  to  be  very  gener 
ous  ?" 

As  I  asked  this  question  I  looked  in  Mary's  face  with 
a  smile, — the  smile  she  gave  me  in  return  was  plainly 
forced. 

After  waiting  a  moment,  during  which  she  seemed  to  be 
thinking  very  deeply,  she  spoke  again.  "  Well,  Aunt 
Kitty,  but  suppose  she  is  not  tired  of  the  books  and  play 
things,  and  does  not  expect  to  get  the  money  back  ?" 

Mary  felt  quite  sure  of  her  ground  now,  and  looked 
steadily  in  my  face.  "  Then,  Mary,  she  would  be  a  gener 
ous  girl,  provided  she  did  not  expect  to  receive  in  exchange 
for  her  gift  some  other  selfish  gratification  or  advantage 
which  she  valued  yet  more  highly." 

Again  Mary  was  silent  and  thoughtful  for  a  while,  then 
said,  "  Why,  Aunt  Kitty,  I  heard  my  father  say  once,  when 
he  gave  some  money  to  help  some  poor  sick  soldiers,  that 
it  was  a  great  gratification  to  him ;  did  that  make  him  not 
generous  ?" 

"  No,  no,  Mary,  for  that  was  not  a  selfish  gratification. 
That  gratification  was  caused  by  the  good  which  he  knew 
the  money  would  do  them, — but  if  your  father  had  given 
it  for  the  praise  which  he  expected  to  receive  for  so  doing, 
or  if  he  had  done  it  to  please  persons  from  whom  he  hoped 
afterwards  to  receive  some  other  favor  in  return — would  he 
have  been  generous,  do  you  think  ?" 

"  No,  Aunt  Kitty,"  said  Mary,  promptly. 

"  I  think,  Mary,  you  are  now  beginning  to  understand 
fully  what  generosity  is.  Remember,  to  be  generous,  you 
must  not  only  give  up  something — but  it  must  be  some 
thing  you  value — something  which  is  a  gratification  or  ad 
vantage  to  you — and  you  must  give  it  up  for  the  gratifica 
tion  or  advantage  of  another.  Ignorant  or  thoughtless  peo 
ple  sometimes  call  a  person  generous  because  he  is  care 
less  of  money,  and  throws  it  away  on  foolish,  useless  things  ; 
do  you  think  him  so  ?" 

"  No,  Aunt  Kitty." 

"And  why  not,  my  dear?"  Mary  hesitated.  "I  have 
been  teaching  you  a  useful  lesson,  Mary,"  said  I,  "  and  I 
would  see  if  you  have  learned  it  well, — tell  me,  then,  why 
you  would  not  think  such  a  person  generous." 


FLORENCE    ARNOTT.  123 

"  Because,  Aunt  Kitty,  what  he  gives  up  is  not  for  the 
gratification  or  advantage  of  another." 

"  Right,  my  love,  you  have  learned  your  lesson  well,  and 
will,  I  hope,  often  put  it  in  practice." 

At  this  moment,  Harriet  put  her  head  into  the  room,  call- 
ing  out,  "  Mary,  do  come  and  see  how  Florence  has  dressed 
up  Rover." 

Rover  was  the  name  of  ,a  dog  which  had  been  lately 
given  to  Florence,  and  which  was  a  great  pet  with  her. 
Away  ran  Mary — all  her  grave  thoughts  quite  forgotten 
far  the  present. 


CHAPTER   VI. 

PARTING    SCENES. 

THOUGH  Mrs.  Arnott's  health  was,  as  I  have  said,  so 
much  improved  that  she  now  hoped  to  be  able  to  remain 
through  the  winter  at  her  own  home,  Mr.  Arnott  was  desi 
rous  that  she  should  spend  some  weeks  of  the  summer  at 
the  warm  springs  of  Virginia,  from  the  waters  of  which  she 
had  always  seemed  to  derive  great  benefit.  Mrs.  Arnott 
was  quite  willing  to  do  any  thing  by  which  she  might  hope 
that  her  health  would  continue  to  improve,  but  she  ac 
knowledged  to  me  that  the  idea  of  taking  Florence  there 
distressed  her. 

"  Since  I  have  been  at  home,"  she  said,  "  and  have  been 
able  to  observe  closely  my  child's  habits  and  temper,  I  see 
much  reason  to  fear  that  she  has  already  suffered  greatly 
from  the  careless  indulgence  which  can  scarcely  be  avoided 
when  we  are  always  surrounded  by  strangers.  She  is  now 
almost  eleven  years  old,  and  I  feel  there  is  no  time  to  be 
lost  in  endeavoring  to  correct  the  faults  of  her  character, 
and  that  this  can  only  be  done  by  a  degree  of  watchful 
ness,  and  of  steady,  yet  gentle  control,  which  I  know 
from  experience  it  is  impossible  to  exercise  either  in  travel 
ling  or  at  a  crowded  watering-place." 

"  Why  should  you  take  Florence  with  you  ?"  I  asked. 

"  What  else  can  I  do  with  her?" 


124  FLORENCE    ARNOTT. 

"Send  her  home  with  me.  You  will  not  be  gone,  Mr. 
Arnott  says,  more  than  six  weeks.  For  an  object  so  im 
portant  as  your  child's  improvement,  you  will  not,  I  am 
sure,  my  dear  friend,  hesitate  to  separate  yourself  from  her 
for  so  short  a  time.  You  know  nothing  pleases  me  more 
than  to  surround  myself  with  children  ;  and  though  I  ac 
knowledge  there  is  no  teacher  like  a  mother,  when  the  choice 
lies  between  a  mother  at  a  watering-place,  and — " 

"  There  is  no  room  to  hesitate,"  said  Mrs.  Arnott,  inter 
rupting  me  :  "I  should  rejoice  to  have  Florence  with  you 
even  were  I  to  remain  at  home ;  and  if  I  can  win  her  con 
sent,  your  invitation  will  be  gladly  and  thankfully  accepted, 
for  of  her  father's  wishes  I  have  not  a  doubt." 

"  Well,"  said  I,  "  you  will  remember  that  I  leave  you  in 
two  days,  so  that  you  have  little  time  to  lose  in  deciding." 

"  To-morrow,"  said  Mrs.  Arnott,  "  to-morrow  I  will 
speak  to  Florence  ;  then  if  she  give  her  consent,  there  will 
be  no  time  for  change." 

The  morrow  came,  and  when  I  met  Mr.  Arnott,  he  said 
to  me  in  a  low  voice,  which  was  unheard  by  any  other  per 
son,  "  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you  for  your  offer  to  re 
lieve  us  and  benefit  our  little  daughter,  for  a  great  benefit  I 
am  sure  it  will  be  to  Florence  to  be  placed  with  other  chil 
dren,  and  under  what  I  know  will  be  your  kind  and  gentle, 
yet  firm  influence." 

Mrs.  Arnott  looked  pale  and  sad,  and  complained  of  a 
bad  headache.  As  I  saw  her  look  tenderly  at  Florence, 
and  heard  how  her  voice  softened  in  speaking  to  her,  I  knew 
what  caused  both  her  headache  and  her  paleness.  It  was 
the  thought  of  parting  with  her  child  for  the  first  time  in 
her  life.  The  separation  would,  I  knew,  be  very  painful  to 
this  fond  mother  ;  but  I  also  knew  that  she  would  willingly 
bear  the  pain  to  herself,  for  the  advantage  which  she  hoped 
Florence  would  derive  from  it. 

After  breakfast,  Mrs.  Arnott  and  I  passed  into  another 
room,  where  we  had  been  accustomed  to  spend  the  morn 
ing,  because  it  was  at  that  time  of  the  day  shaded  and 
cool.  We  had  scarcely  entered  when  the  three  children 
passed  the  window  near  which  we  sat.  They  seemed 
very  merry,  amusing  themselves  with  the  wonderful  but 
awkward  efforts  made  by  Rover  to  catch  an  elastic  ball 
that  Florence  was  tossing  up. 


FLORENCE    ARNOTT.  125 

Mrs.  Arnott  called  Florence.        • 

"  What  is  it,  mamma  ?"  said  she,  scarcely  stopping  from 
her  play  long  enough  to  look  around. 

"  Come  here,  my  daughter,  I  have  something  to  say  to 
you." 

Florence  came  to  the  window. 

"  No,  Florence,  you  must  come  in,  I  want  to  talk  to 
you  a  little." 

For  a  moment  Florence's  countenance  was  clouded  ;  but 
it  was  only  for  a  moment,  when,  laughing,  she  cri?d  out, 
"  Here,  Rover,  here,  sir — come  in  with  me,  Rover,  for 
mamma  wants  to  talk  to  me,  and  while  she  is  talking  you 
can  be  playing  ball," — and  she  came  racing  in,  Rover  at 
her  heels,  and  Harriet  and  Mary  following  to  see  the  fun. 

Mrs.  Arnott  pressed  her  hand  to  her  forehead,  and  I 
saw  that  all  this  uproar  increased  her  headache,  but  it  was 
impossible  for  several  seconds  to  make  the  children  hear 
us.  At  length  I  succeeded  in  silencing  Harriet  and  Mary, 
and  in  making  Florence  understand  that  the  noise  gave 
her  mother  pain,  and  that  she  had  better  send  Rover  out. 

"  Does  mamma's  head  ache  ?"  she  said ;  "  I  am  sorry 
for  it — but  just  see  Rover,  mamma,  try  to  catch  this  ball 
— just  see  him  once — do,  mamma — that  can't  hurt  you,  I 
am  sure,  and  it  is  so  funny." 

Before  I  could  remonstrate,  or  Mrs.  Arnott  could  refuse, 
if  she  intended  to  refuse,  the  ball  was  thrown.  Again 
Rover,  who  had  been  watching  every  movement  of  Flor 
ence,  was  barking,  leaping,  and  turning  somersets  in  the 
air  ;  and  again  the  children  were  laughing,  Florence  as 
loudly  as  ever,  and  Harriet  and  Mary  with  quite  as  much 
enjoyment,  though  a  little  less  noise.  As  I  found  speaking 
of  little  use,  I  stepped  up  quietly  to  the  merry  group,  and, 
catching  the  ball  as  it  rebounded  from  the  floor,  put  a  stop 
at  once  to  their  mirth  and  Rover's  efforts. 

"  Now,  my  dear,"  said  I  to  Florence,  "  your  mother 
wants  to  speak  a  few  words  to  you,  so  sit  down  quietly  by 
her  while  I  take  Rover  out,  for  she  is  in  too  much  pain  to 
be  amused  by  him." 

Florence  looked  surprised,  and  for  a  moment  not  very 
well  pleased,  but  as  she  found  that  I  spoke  gently  and 
pleasantly  to  the  dog,  and  praised  his  beauty,  while  he 
ran  good-humoredly  by  my  side,  rubbing  his  curly  head 

11* 


126  FLORENCE    ARNOTT. 

against  me,  her  countenance  brightened,  and  she  seated 
herself  without  any  objection.  I  beckoned  to  Harriet  and 
Mary  to  follow  me,  and  when  we  were  out  of  the  room,  I 
gave  Rover  and  the  ball  into  their  charge.  Telling  them 
to  wait  in  the  piazza  for  Florence,  and  obtaining  from 
them  a  promise  that  they  would  be  very  quiet,  I  returned. 
I  had  left  the  door  of  the  room  open,  and  as  I  reached  it, 
I  heard  Florence  say,  "  Oh  no,  mamma !  I  had  a  great 
deal  rather  go  to  the  Springs  with  you  and  papa."  At 
this  moment  she  heard  my  step,  and  turning,  looked  quite 
confused  as  her  eye  met  mine. 

"  Do  not  be  ashamed,  Florence,"  said  I,  "  that  I  should 
have  heard  you.  I  should  be  sorry  if  you  did  not  love 
your  papa  and  mamma  well  enough  to  prefer  their  com 
pany  to  mine ;  but  I  hope  you  love  them  so  well  that  you 
will  do  cheerfully  what  is  not  quite  so  pleasant  to  yourself, 
when  you  are  told  that  it  will  please  them."  Florence 
hung  her  head,  looked  very  grave,  and  said  nothing. 
"  Speak,  Florence,"  said  I,  "  would  you  not  be  willing, 
for  your  mother's  sake,  to  do  what  might  not  be  very 
pleasant  to  yourself?" 

After  a  little  hesitation,  Florence,  without  raising  her 
head,  said  in  a  dissatisfied  tone,  "  I  don't  see  what  good  it 
could  do  mamma  for  me  to  go  where  I  do  not  want  to  go." 

I  would  have  told  Florence  of  her  mother's  delicate 
health,  and  of  how  much  more  benefit  she  would  probably 
receive  from  travelling  if  she  could  be  free  from  care ; 
but  Mrs.  Arnott,  seeming  to  think  there  was  little  hope 
of  influencing  Florence  in  this  way,  interrupted  me,  say 
ing,  "  But,  my  love,  why  should  you  not  wish  to  go  home 
with  Harriet  and  Mary  ?  You  know  how  much  you  en 
joyed  your  visit  of  two  or  three  days  to  them  last  summer, 
—and  Harriet  has  since  then  got  a  pony — you  might  ride 
on  horseback  if  you  went  now." 

"Will  she  let  me  ride  him?"  asked  Florence,  looking 
up  at  me  with  sudden  animation. 

"  I  am  sure  she  will,"  I  replied. 

"  And  may  I  carry  Rover  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  Well,  then,  I  will  go,  for  I  should  like  to  ride  on 
horseback ;  and  then,  mamma,  I'll  have  Rover  with  me, 
and  how  odd  it  will  be  to  see  him  jumping  up  and  trying 


FLORENCE    ARNOTT.  127 

to  get  to  me  on  the  horse,  just  as  he  tried  to-day  to  catch 
the  ball,"  and  she  laughed  out,  and  was  again  all  smiles 
and  good-humor. 

The  consent  of  Florence  having  been  obtained,  the 
preparations  for  her  visit  were  soon  completed,  and  as  we 
set  out  before  the  sun  had  risen  on  the  following  morning, 
there  was,  as  Mrs.  Arnott  had  said,  no  time  for  her  to 
change  her  mind. 

Florence  could  not  but  love  her  kind  and  gentle  mother 
dearly,  and  I  did  not  wonder  to  see  the  tears  start  as  she 
bade  her  good-by  ;  but  Rover  was  to  be  looked  after — the 
wild- flowers  with  which  the  road  was  lined  were  to  be 
admired — the  rising  sun  was  to  be  seen — and  amidst  all 
these,  Florence  soon  forgot  to  be  sad. 


CHAPTER    VII. 

CHANGES. 

I  HAVE  nothing  strange  to  tell  you  of  our  journey.  Ma 
ry's  father  and  mother  were  expecting  us,  and  we  arrived 
in  time  to  take  tea  with  them,  sending  the  carriage  home 
with  our  trunks.  After  tea,  I  walked  home  with  Harriet 
and  Florence,  while  Rover  gambolled  along  as  gayly  as  if 
he  had  had  no  travelling  that  day. 

The  next  morning  there  was  no  difficulty  in  getting 
Florence  up,  for  she  was  so  impatient  to  mount  the  pony, 
that  I  could  scarcely  persuade  her  to  wait  till  I  was  dress- 
ed  and  able  to  go  with  her  and  witness  her  first  lesson  in 
horsemanship.  Pony  was  so  gentle  that  I  felt  there  was 
little  danger,  in  trusting  her  on  him,  and  so  delighted  was 
she  with  her  new  amusement,  that  she  rode  wherever  she 
went,  and  I  think  Harriet  was  only  twice  on  horseback 
during  her  visit,  and  one  of  these  rides  was  not  taken  for 
her  own  pleasure.  They  seldom  went  out  without  me,  but 
one  morning  when  I  was  very  much  engaged,  Mary  came 
over  to  say,  that  her  governess  having  gone  on  a  visit  to  a 
sick  friend,  from  which  she  would  not  return  for  two  days, 


128  FLORENCE    ARNOTT. 

her  mother  had  given  her  permission  to  invite  her  young 
friends  in  the  neighborhood  to  spend  the  next  day  with  her, 
and  as  she  was  going  this  morning  to  give  her  invitations 
herself,  she  wished  Florence  and  Harriet"  to  go  with  her. 
Florence  was  quite  ready  to  go,  provided  she  could  ride  ; 
so  pony  was  saddled,  and  as  I  knew  where  they  were  go 
ing,  and  felt  there  was  really  no  danger  in  the  way,  I  al 
lowed  them  to  go  without  me,  sending  with  them,  however, 
a  servant  whom  I  knew  to  be  careful  and  discreet.  Gay, 
laughing  and  chatting,  they  set  out.  The  farthest  house 
to  which  Mary  intended  extending  her  invitations  was  only 
three  quarters  of  a  mile  distant,  yet  as  she  had  several 
calls  to  make,  I  did  not  expect  them  to  return  under  an 
hour  and  a  half,  or  perhaps  two  hours.  Greatly  surprised 
was  I,  therefore,  when  in  about  half  an  hour  I  heard  tones 
which  seemed  to  me  very  like  Mary's,  but  not  gay  and 
laughing,  as  I  had  last  heard  them.  Then  came  a  few 
words  from  Florence,  and  there  was  no  mistaking  the  fact, 
that  her  voice  was  decidedly  sulky.  Mary  was  already  in 
the  piazza,  when,  laying  aside  my  work,  I  approached  the 
window.  Harriet  was  not  with  her,  nor  was  Florence  in 
sight.  With  some  alarm  I  inquired,  "  Where  are  Harriet 
and  Florence  ?" 

"  Florence  has  rode  to  the  stable,  and  Harriet  has  gone 
for  the  doctor,"  Mary  replied. 

"  The  doctor  !"  I  exclaimed,  still  more  alarmed  ;  "  for 
whom?  Is  any  thing  the  matter  with  Harriet?" 

"  No,  but  Mrs.  O'Donnel's  baby  is  ill— oh !  so  ill,  Aunt 
Kitty  ! — and  Harriet  has  gone  for  the  doctor,  and  Margaret 
has  stayed  with  the  baby,  and  sent  me  back  to  beg  you  to 
go  there." 

Confused  as  Mary's  account  was,  it  was  clear  enough 
that  aid  was  wanted,  and  without  waiting  to  ask  any  fur 
ther  questions,  I  set  out,  taking  with  me  such  simple  medi 
cines  as  I  thought  might  be  useful,  if  I  should  arrive  before 
the  doctor.  As  I  left  the  parlor  Mary  followed  me,  and 
begged  very  earnestly  to  be  allowed  to  go  with  me  and 
carry  some  of  my  vials. 

"  But  Florence,  Mary,  would  you  leave  her  alone  ?" 

"  I  do  not  believe  Florence  cares  to  have  me  stay  with 
her,  Aunt  Kitty,  and  I  am  sure  I  do  not  wish  to  stay,"  said 
Mary,  coloring. 


FLORENCE    ARNOTT.  129 

I  remembered  the  angry  tones  I  had  heard,  and  thought 
it  was  perhaps  wisest  not  to  leave  these  children  together 
while  they  were  so  evidently  out  of  temper,  so  returning 
to  the  parlor,  where  Florence  had  just  made  her  appear 
ance,  I  asked  her  if  she  would  like  to  go  with  me. 

"  No,"  she  repMed,  "  I  am  tired." 

"  Then,  my  dear,  rest  yourself  on  the  sofa  a  while,  and 
when  you  get  up,  look  in  that  closet  and  you  will  find  some 
peaches.  Mary  is  going  with  me,  but  I  will  send  Harriet 
to  you  as  soon  as  I  see  her." 

"  I  do  not  want  Harriet  or  Mary  either,"  said  Florence, 
impatiently. 

I  soon  found  that  I  had  not  left  all  the  ill-humor  behind 
when  I  left  Florence,  for  we  were  scarcely  down  the  steps 
before  Mary  expressed  her  conviction,  that  "  there  never 
was  such  another  selfish  girl  as  Florence  Arnott." 

"  Mary,"  said  I,  "  I  once  told  you  that  you  were  hasty 
in  pronouncing  Florence  to  be  very  generous ;  but  that 
was  not  so  blameable  as  your  present  condemnation  of 
her,  whatever  she  may  have  done.  It  may  be  unwise 
to  be  ready  to  praise  so  highly  on  the  acquaintance  of  a 
few  days,  but  it  is  unamiable  to  blame  so  severely  for  a 
single  fault." 

"  But,  Aunt  Kitty,  it  is  not  a  single  fault.  I  have  been 
thinking  a  long  time,  almost  ever  since  you  told  me  what 
made  a  person  generous,  that  Florence  was  not  so  gener 
ous  as  I  thought  at  first ;  but  I  do  think  anybody  that  would 
rather  a  poor  little  baby  should  die  than  to  lose  a  ride  for 
themselves,  is  very  selfish,  very  selfish  indeed,"  repeated 
Mary,  with  great  emphasis. — "  And  now,  Aunt  Kitty,"  she 
continued,  "  I  will  tell  you  how  it  was,  and  then  you  will 
see  if  I  am  not  right." 

"  Stop,  my  dear  Mary,"  said  I,  as  she  was  about  to  com 
mence  her  story,  "  you  are  just  now  very  angry  with  Flor 
ence,  and  would  not  therefore  be  a  fair  witness  in  the  case. 
I  had  rather  hear  from  some  one  else  how  it  was." 

"  Why,  Aunt  Kitty,"  said  Mary,  with  a  very  proud 
look,  "  you  do  not  think  I  would  tell  you  a  story,  I  hope." 

"  No,  my  love,  I  am  sure  you  would  tell  me  nothing 
which  you  did  not  believe  to  be  true ;  but  anger  makes 
the  words  and  looks,  and  even  the  actions  of  people,  appear 
to  us  very  unlike  what  they  really  are.  However,  you 


130  FLORENCE    ARNOTT. 

have  no  time  to  tell  me  any  thing,  even* if  I  wished  it,  for 
here  we  are  at  Mrs.  O'Donnel's." 

My  readers  may  not  be  as  unwilling  as  I  was  to  hear 
what  Mary  had  to  say,  so  I  will  tell  them  what  I  after 
wards  heard  of  the  morning's  adventures  from  Margaret 
and  Harriet,  as  soon  as  I  have  given  them  some  account 
of  Mrs.  O'Donnel  and  her  baby. 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

A     MOTHER     AND    CHILD. 

THE  little  cabin,  for  it  was  nothing  more,  in  which  Mrs. 
O'Donnel  lived,  had  been  put  up  only  a  few  months.  It 
was  built  in  a  little  wood  which  skirted  the  road  between 
my  house  and  the  village,  and  stood  so  near  the  road  that 
the  traveller,  as  he  passed  along,  could  hear  the  baby  who 
lived  there,  crying,  or  the  song  with  which  his  young  mo 
ther  was  hushing  him  to  sleep.  She  was  a  very  young 
mother ;  and  there  she  lived,  you  might  almost  say,  with 
no  one  but  her  baby — for  Pat  O'Donnel,  her  husband,  was 
one  of  the  hands  on  board  a  steamboat  which  went  from 

our  village  to  H every  morning  and  returned  in  the 

evening,  and  though  he  was  always  at  home  at  night,  he 
was  away  every  day  except  Sunday,  from  day-dawn  till 
dark.  He  had  built  this  cabin,  and  brought  his  young  wife 
and  his  baby  son  to  live  there,  that  he  might  spend  every 
night  with  them. 

I  know  nothing  more  of  these  people  than  I  have  now 
told  you,  when  the  circumstances  occurred  which  I  am 
about  to  relate,  except  that  Mrs.  O'Donnel  worked  very 
industriously  in  a  little  garden  which  had  been  fenced  in 
for  her  near  her  cabin,  and  that  on  Sunday,  the  husband 
and  wife,  with  their  bright-eyed  boy,  might  be  seen  go 
ing  to  church,  looking  clean,  and  healthy,  and  happy. 
But  Harriet  had  become  better  acquainted  with  the  family 
;han  I,  for  she  loved  children,  and  could  never  pass  little 
Jem — this  was  the  name  of  the  baby — without  a  smile  or  a 


FLORENCE    ARNOTT.  131 

pleasant  word,  and  the  child  soon  learned  to  know  her ; 
and  when  she  came  near,  would  jump  and  spring  in  his 
mother's  arms,  give  her  back  smile  for  smile,  and  since  he 
could  not  talk  yet,  would  crow  to  her  words.  The  mother 
was  pleased  with  the  notice  taken  of  her  boy,  and  when 
ever  we  passed  the  house,  would  bring  him  to  the  low 
fence  nearest  the  road,  and  with  a  courtesy,  and  "  How 
d'ye  do,  ma'am  ?"  to  me,  would  hold  him  to  Harriet  to 
kiss,  sometimes  putting  in  his  hand  a  bunch  of  flowers  for 
his  young  friend,  who  seldom  left  home  to  walk  in  that  di 
rection  without  taking  some  present  for  him.  Even  when 
setting  out  with  Mary  to  deliver  her  invitations,  little  Jem 
had  not  been  forgotten ;  and  when  I  saw  Harriet  saving 
the  largest  of  two  peaches  I  had  given  her,  and  putting  it 
in  a  little  basket  which  she  carried  in  her  hand,  I  well 
knew  that  it  would  go  no  farther  than  to  Mrs.  O'Donnel's 
cabin.  Accordingly,  when  she  came  in  sight  of  it,  she 
quickened  her  pace,  saying  to  her  companions,  "  I  want  to 
stop  at  Mrs.  O'Donnel's  a  minute,  so  I  will  run  on  ;  and 
if  you  do  not  go  too  fast,  I  will  be  with  you  again  before 
you  have  passed  there." 

Before  she  reached  the  house,  she  called  out  for  little 
Jem,  and  wondered  that  neither  his  laugh  nor  his  mother's 
pleasant  voice  answered  her.  She  would  have  thought 
they  were  not  at  home,  but  the  door  was  open,  and  Mrs. 
O'Donnel  was  too  careful  to  leave  it  so,  when  she  was  far 
away.  Unlatching  the  little  gate  which  opened  on  the 
road,  she  crossed  the  yard  and  entered  the  house.  There 
sat  Mrs.  O'Donnel,  her  hands  clasped  in  an  agony  of  grief, 
and  tears  washing  her  face,  and  falling  unheeded  on  that 
of  her  poor  boy,  who  lay  extended  on  her  lap,  no  longer 
laughing  and  crowing,  but  pale  and  still,  with  his  eyes  half 
closed. 

Harriet's  exclamation  of,  "Wh$t  is  the  matter,  Mrs. 
O'Donnel  ?",  roused  the  poor  mother,  who,  looking  up,  said, 
"  Oh,  Miss,  and  glad  am  I  you're  come,  for  my  poor  baby 
loved  you,  and  you're  just  in  time  to  see  him  die." 

"  Oh  !  I  hope  not,  Mrs.  O'Donnel,"  said  Harriet.  "  He 
will  -not  die.  Do  you  think  he  will  ?"  she  added,  more 
doubtingly,  as  again  she  looked  in  his  pale  face,  and  kneel 
ing  down  by  him,  took  the  little  hand  which  lay  so  feebly 
by  his  side. 


132  FLORENCE    ARNOTT. 

"  And  indeed,  Miss,  I  fear  he  will  die,"  said  the  poor 
woman.  "  All  yesterday  I  saw  he  was  not  well,  and 
grieved  was  I  to  see  Pat  going  this  morning,  and  leaving 
me  with  him  all  alone — but  Pat  laughed  at  me  for  a  cow 
ard,  and  when  I  heard  him  laugh,  I  took  heart  and  thought 
it  was  all  my  foolishness — but  ah,  Miss !  it  isn't  laughing 
he'll  do  when  he  comes  home  the  night;"  and  at. the 
thought  of  her  husband's  sorrow,  Mrs.  O'Donnel  sobbed 
aloud.  Soon  recovering  herself,  she  continued  :  "  I  saw 
Pat  off,  and  when  he  was  out  of  sight  I  came  back,  and 
looked  at  my  baby  as  he  lay  asleep.  It  was  daylight  then, 
and  I  saw  he  had  a  beautiful  color.  Now  I  know  the  color 
was  just  the  fever  burning  him  up,  but  then  I  thought  he 
was  better,  and  I  was  so  glad  that  I  couldn't  help  sing 
ing,  though  I  did  it  softly  for  fear  of  waking  him ;  and  lit 
tle  was  the  work  I  did,  going  back  again  and  again  to  the 
bed  to  see  my  pretty  baby  looking  so  well — and  at  last  I 
stooped  down  to  kiss  him,  and  whether  I  woke  him,  Miss, 
I  don't  know,  but  all  at  once  he  opened  his  eyes  wide  and 
stared  at  me,  and  he  doubled  his  fists  and  stretched  him 
self  out,  and  made  such  a  noise  in  the  throat,  that  it  was 
dying  I  thought  he  was  just  then — and  I  screamed  and 
cried,  but  there  was  nobody  to  hear  me,  and  soon  he  stop 
ped  making  the  noise  and  shut  his  eyes  again,  and  ever 
since  he  has  lain  still,  just  like  this." 

Any  one  who  has  seen  a  child  in  convulsions,  will  know 
what  had  been  the  matter  with  little  Jem ;  but  Harriet 
knew  nothing  about  it,  and,  you  may  suppose  her  dismay, 
when,  as  she  was  looking  at  her  little  playfellow,  a  spasm 
crossed  his  face,  his  head  was  thrown  back,  his  limbs  stif 
fened,  and  that  distressing  noise  in  the  throat  was  again 
heard.  The  mother  shrieked,  and  Harriet,  rushing  to  the 
door,  screamed  to  Margaret,  who,  with  Florence  and  Mary, 
was  waiting  in  the  roa*  for  her,  that  little  Jem  was  dying. 
Margaret  was  a  good  nurse,  and  one  of  those  useful  people 
who  think  more  of  helping  those  who  suffer,  than  of  mourning 
over  them.  '  As  soon  as  she  entered  the  house,  she  saw 
what  was  the  matter,  and  saw,  too,  the  very  thing  which 
she  most  needed, — a  large  pot  of  water,  under  which  Mrs. 
O'Donnel  had  made  a  fire  before  she  became  alarmed 
about  her  child.  In  another  minute,  she  had  drawn  a  tub 
from  under  a  table,  poured  into  it  the  hot  water  from  the 


FLORENCE    ARNOTT.  133 

pot,  cooled  it  to  the  proper  temperature,  by  the  addition  of 
some  from  a  pail  which  stood  near,  and  before  Mrs.  O'Don- 
nel  at  all  understood  her  proceedings,  her  child  was  strip 
ped  and  laid  in  a  warm  bath. 

As  'the  convulsion  passed  off,  Margaret  said,  "  Now, 
Mrs.  O'Donnel,  your  child  is  coming  to,  and  you  must  not 
be  so  frightened,  for  I  have  seen  many  a  child  have  fits, 
and  be  just  as  well  as  ever  afterwards ;  but  you  must  be 
very  quiet,  ma'am,  for  if  he  goes  to  sleep  afterwards  he 
ought  not  to  be  woke ;  and,  Miss  Harriet,  you  cannot  do 
any  good  crying  here,  but  if  you  will  get  on  pony  and  ride 
for  the  doctor  as  fast  as  you  can,  you  will  be  doing  a 
great  deal  of  good,  and  Miss  Mary  had  better  go  back  and 
tell  her  aunt." 

In  an  instant  Harriet  was  by  the  side  of  the  pony,  urging 
Florence  to  get  off,  that  she  might  mount  and  go  for  the 
doctor.  But  to  this  arrangement  Florence  strongly  ob 
jected.  My  readers  must  not  be  too  angry  with  her,  they 
must  remember  she  had  not  seen  the  child,  and  did  not 
know  how  very  important  even  a  few  minutes  might  be  in 
such  a  case  as  his.  Still,  it  must  be  confessed,  she  thought 
more  of  herself  than  of  any  one  else,  as  she  replied  to 
Harriet's  entreaties,  "  Why  cannot  I  go  for  the  doctor  ? 
I  can  carry  a  message  just  as  well  as  you." 

"  But,  Florence,  you  do  not  know  where  the  doctor 
lives." 

"  Well,  you  can  go  with  me  and  show  me." 

"  Florence,  I  cannot  walk  as  fast  as  the  pony  can  go. 
Do,  Florence,  come  down  and  let  me  have  him." 

Florence  did  not  stir,  and  Harriet  wrung  her  hands  with 
impatience,  as,  turning  to  the  door,  she  called  out,  "  Mar 
garet,  Florence  will  not  let  me  have  the  pony." 

Margaret  came  out,  but  neither  her  remonstrances,  nor 
Harriet's  entreaties,  nor  the  reproaches  of  Mary,  had  any 
effect  upon  Florence.  Indeed,  Mary's  reproaches  probably 
only  strengthened  her  resolution,  as  it  is  not  by  making 
people  angry  that  we  induce  them  to  yield  their  wishes  to 
ours.  Some  minutes  were  lost  in  this  useless  contest,  when 
Harriet  said,  "  Margaret,  I  will  not  wait  any  longer,  I  will 
walk  as  fast  as  I  can,  and  if  the  doctor  is  only  at  home  he 
will  soon  be  here." 

When  Mary  and  I  arrived  at  Mrs.  O'Donnel's,  neither 
12 


134  FLORENCE    ARNOTT. 

the  doctor  nor  Harriet  had  yet  made  their  appearance.  I 
did  for  the  poor  baby  all  I  could  venture  to  do  without  a 
physician's  advice,  and  then  watched  with  much  anxiety 
for  Dr.  Franks.  I  had  been  there  probably  half  an  hour, 
when  Harriet  came  in,  flushed  and  panting.  "  Where  is 
the  doctor  ?"  was  the  first  question. 

"  He  will  soon  be  here,"  she  replied  ;  "  I  am  sure  he 
will,  for  Mrs.  Franks  knew  where  he  was,  and  she  sent  off 
a  boy  on  horseback  for  him." 

Harriet  looked  so  heated,  that,  fearing  the  effect  of  fur 
ther  excitement  on  her,  I  determined  to  return  home  imme 
diately.  So,  giving  Margaret  some  directions,  and  telling 
Mrs.  O'Donnel  that  I  would  see  her  again  in  the  after 
noon,  I  left  them. 


CHAPTER    IX. 

REPENTANCE. 

WE  walked  home  quite  slowly,  on  Harriet's  account. 
We  had  been  so  long  away  that  Florence  would,  I  thought, 
have  become  quite  tired  of  loneliness  and  ill-humor,  and 
quite  prepared  to  welcome  us  with  cheerful,  friendly 
smiles  ;  indeed  I  should  not  have  been  greatly  surprised  to 
meet  her  on  the  way,  or  at  least  to  see  her  in  the  piazza 
watching  for  us.  But  we  reached  the  house — entered  the 
piazza — passed  into  the  parlor,  and  still  no  Florence  was 
seen.  I  called  her,  but  she  did  not  answer,  and  a  servant 
told  me  she  thought  Miss  Florence  had  gone  to  lie  down, 
as  she  had  told  her  that  she  was  sick,  and  did  not  want  any 
dinner.  I  went  to  her  room  immediately,  and  found  her 
asleep.  She  had  evidently  been  weeping,  for  her  face  was 
flushed,  her  eyelids  red  and  swollen,  and  as  I  stood  by  her, 
she  sobbed  heavily  more  than  once.  Harriet  had  stolen  in 
after  me  without  my  seeing  her,  and  as  I  turned  to  darken 
a  window,  the  light  from  which  shone  directly  on  Florence, 
she  looked  anxiously  in  my  face,  and  asked  in  a  whisper, 
w  Is  she  very  sick,  Aunt  Kitty  ?" 


FLORENCE    ARNOTT.  135 

I  did  not  like  to  tell  Harriet  that  I  thought  Florence 
more  sulky  than  sick,  so  I  only  replied,  "  I  hope  not,  my 
dear.  She  has  cried  herself  to  sleep,  and  if  awoke  now, 
will  probably  have  a  headache,  so  we  will  let  her  sleep  on." 

When  we  had  dined,  Mary  prepared  to  return  home. 
Harriet  had  quite  recovered  from  her  fatigue,  and  I  pro 
posed  that  she  should  go  home  with  Mary  and  spend  the 
afternoon.  She  hesitated  at  this  for  a  little  while,  and  then 
said,  "  I  had  rather  go  to  Mrs.  O'Donnel's  with  you,  Aunt 
Kitty." 

"But,  Harriet,  I  would  rather  you  should  go  to  your 
uncle's." 

Seeing  she  still  lingered  by  me,  and  looked  dissatisfied, 
I  added,  "  I  have  a  very  good  reason  for  my  wish,  Har 
riet,  which,  if  I  should  tell  it  to  you,  would,  I  am  sure, 
make  you  go  cheerfully ;  but  I  would  rather  you  should 
trust  me,  and  do  what  I  ask  without  hearing  my  reason. 
Can  you  not  ?" 

She  readily  answered,  "  Yes,"  and  getting  her  bonnet, 
only  stopped  to  ask  that  I  would  let  her  know  how  little 
Jem  was  as  soon  as  I  came  back.  This  I  promised,  and 
she  and  Mary  set  out. 

It  was  on  account  of  Florence  that  I  had  sent  Harriet 
away.  I  had  at  first  been  interested  in  this  little  girl  for 
her  mother's  sake,  but  I  had  now  become  much  attached  to 
her  and  deeply  interested  in  her  for  her  own  sake.  She 
was  naturally  a  child  of  quick  feelings  and  warm  affec 
tions,  and  I  could  not  see  her  anxiety  to  please  me,  her 
loving  remembrance  of  her  father  and  mother,  her  constant 
solicitude  about  them,  and  her  delight  at  hearing  of  them, 
without  regarding  her  tenderly,  and  earnestly  desiring  to 
see  that  one  fault  removed,  which  was  daily  acquiring 
strength,  and  which  would  in  time  destroy  all  that  was 
pleasing  or  amiable  in  her  character.  For  this  one  fault, 
which  I  am  sure  I  need  not  tell  my  readers  was  selfishness, 
I  found,  too,  more  excuse  in  the  circumstances  of  Florence, 
than  I  could  have  found  in  those  of  most  children.  She 
was  an  only  child,  and  her  fond  father  and  mother  had  al 
ways  so  plainly  shown  that  they  considered  her  the  first 
object  in  life,  and  thought  that  every  thing  should  yield  to 
her  wishes,  that  Florence  is  perhaps  scarcely  very  much  to 
blame  for  having  learned  to  think  so  too.  I  had  long  wish- 


136  FLORENCE    ARNOTT. 

ed  for  an  opportunity  to  show  Florence  her  own  selfishness 
and  its  great  evil,  and  as  Margaret  had,  while  I  was  at  Mrs. 
O'Donnel's,  told  me  what  she  knew  of  the  morning's  ad 
ventures,  I  believed  that  this  opportunity  I  had  now  found. 
That  Mary  had  spoken  the  truth  to  Florence  on  this  sub 
ject,  I  did  riot  doubt ;  but  I  was  as  sure  that  this  truth  had 
been  spoken,  not  in  love,  but  in  anger,  and  this  never 
profits  any  one.  I  did  not  think  it  would  be  necessary  for 
me  to  speak  at  all,  for  I  thought  Florence  had  now  prepared 
for  hersel/  a  lesson  which  would  tell  her  all  I  wished  her 
to  know,  far  more  forcibly  than  any  words  of  mine  could 
do.  What  this  lesson  was,  how  I  induced  Florence  to  look 
at  it,  and  what  were  its  effects  on  her,  you  -shall  now  hear. 

When  Florence  awoke,  I  was  sitting  by  her  bedside,  and 
I  met  her  first  glance  with  a  pleasant  smile.  She  cast  a 
wondering  look  around  her,  and  again  resting  her  eyes  on 
me,  asked,  "  Where  is  Harriet  ?" 

"  Gone  home  with  Mary,"  I  replied  ;  "  and  I  want  you 
to  make  a  visit,  and  take  a  drive  with  me, — so  get  up,  lazy 
one,  and  when  you  have  washed  your  face  and  brushed 
your  hair,  come  to  the  parlor,  and  you  shall  have  some 
dinner." 

As  I  spoke,  I  playfully  lifted  Florence  from  the  bed,  and 
placed  her  standing  on  the  floor,  and  before  she  had  time 
to  ask  any  farther  questions,  or  make  any  objections,  I  was 
gone.  When  she  came  out,  I. had  such  a  dinner  prepared 
for  her,  as  I  knew  would  best  please  her  taste,  and  near  it 
stood  a  small  basket  filled  with  choice  fruit.  Florence 
was  hungry,  and  said  little  till  she  had  finished  her  dinner. 
She  then  asked  where  I  was  going. 

"  I  am  going  to  take  a  drive  to  a  farmer's  about  four 
miles  ofF,  who  has  the  best  cherries  in  the  neighborhood, — 
but  first,  I  am  going  to  Mrs.  O'Donnel's  to  see  her  sick  ba 
by,  and  I  want  you  to  go  with  me,  and  help  me  take  her 
some  things  which  I  think  may  be  of  use  to  him." 

While  speaking,  I  laid  a  small  bundle  on  the  table  by 
Florence.  She  looked  at  the  bundle,  then  at  me,  and  then 
down  on  the  floor.  At  last  she  spoke,  "  I  do  not  want  to 
go  to  Mrs.  O'Donnel's." 

"  Do  not  want  to  go  to  Mrs.  O'Donnel's !  I  am  very 
sorry  for  that,  for  I  must  take  these  things  to  the  baby. 
But  why  do  you  not  wish  to  go  ?" 


FLORENCE  ARNOTT.  137 

"  Mary  called  me  selfish  this  morning,  and — and — I  do 
not  want  to  go  there." 

"  Mary  called  you  selfish  !  I  will  not  ask  you  why  she 
did  so,  because,  as  I  would  not  let  her  tell  me  your  quar 
rels,  I  must  not  be  partial  and  hear  them  from  you ;  but 
surely  to  refuse  to  do  a  kind  action  to  a  sick  baby,  is  not 
the  best  way  to  convince  her  that  she  was  unjust."  I  saw 
that  Florence  hesitated,  and  pursuing  my  purpose,  said, 
"  Come,  put  on  your  bonnet,  and  do  not  let  Mary's  petu 
lance  prevent  your  doing  right,  and  deprive  me  of  my 
companion." 

As  she  had  no  objection  to  make,  Florence  put  on  her 
bonnet,  took  up  the  bundle,  and  followed  me,  though  I  could 
see  it  was  with  inward  reluctance.  During  our  walk  I 
spoke  to  her  cheerfully  and  pleasantly,  leaving  her  but  lit 
tle  time  for  thought. 

When  we  came  in  sight  of  the  house,  she  became  grave 
and  silent.  I,  too,  ceased  talking.  I  held  Florence's  hand, 
and,  as  we  approached  the  door,  I  could  feel  that  she  drew 
back ;  but  I  took  no  notice  of  her  efforts,  and  she  entered 
with  me  into  the  presence,  to  all  appearance,  of  the  dying. 
Florence  had  never  before  stood  by  the  side  of  one  so  ill ; 
and  to  see  the  pretty,  laughing  baby,  with  whom  she  had 
played  so  gayly  but  a  few  days  since,  lying  so  changed ; 
to  hear  his  deep,  groaning  breath ;  to  see  the  poor  mother, 
as  she  sat,  shedding  no  tear,  making  no  moan,  but  gazing 
on  her  child  with  a  hopeless  agony  which  none  could  mis 
take,  was  enough  to  cause  her  to  turn  pale  and  burst  into 
tears  ;  yet  I  thought  it  probable  that  Mary's  angry  speech 
es  were  now  remembered,  and  that  some  of  the  bitterness 
of  remorse  was  in  the  heart  of  Florence.  No  one  moved 
when  we  entered.  Even  Dr.  Franks,  who  was  there,  re 
mained  seated,  holding  his  watch  in  his  hand,  and  occa 
sionally  making  a  sign  to  Margaret  to  give  the  child  some 
medicine  which  stood  on  a  table  by  her.  I  was  myself 
overcome,  for  though  I  had  expected  to  find  the  child  ill,  I 
had  not  been  prepared  for  such  apparent  hopelessness  in 
his  case.  Poor  Florence  !  Her  lesson  was  likely  to  be 
more  severe  than  I  had  anticipated. 

Seeing  that  I  could  do  no  good,  feeling  that  I  could  speak 
no  comfort  there,  I  quietly  laid  down  what  I  had  brought 
on  the  floor  beside  Mrs.  O'Donnel,  and  taking  the  hand  of 

12* 


138  FLORENCE    ARNOTT. 

the  weeping  Florence,  passed  out.  Dr.  Franks  followed 
me.  I  heard  his  step,  and  turning,  when  we  were  far 
enough  from  the  door  not  to  be  heard  within  the  house,  I 
asked  him  whether  he  had  any  hope  that  the  child  would 
recover. 

"  Only  that  hope,"  he  replied,  "which  we  feel  as  long 
as  there  is  life.  He  cannot  long  remain  as  he  now  is ;  if 
he  recover  at  all,  he  will  soon  show  signs  of  being  better. 
If  I  could  have  been  called  earlier,  even  half  an  hour 
earlier,  before  the  child's  strength  had  been  so  far  ex 
hausted,  the  case  would  have  been  comparatively  simple, 
and  easily  relieved ;  but  now — "  and  he  shook  his  head 
despondingly. 

Florence  had  looked  up  anxiously  in  Dr.  Franks'  face 
while  he  was  speaking.  She  now  dropped  her  head, 
covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  and  sobbed  loudly  and 
violently.  This  caused  the  doctor  to  look  at  her,  and 
that  look  probably  reminded  him  of  Harriet,  for  he  said, 
"  By  the  by,  I  never  knew  Harriet  so  thoughtless  as  in 
this  business.  Why,  when  she  found  I  was  not  at  home, 
did  she  not  ride  on  for  me  herself,  instead  of  waiting  for  a 
boy  to  catch  and  saddle  another  horse,  a  business  of  half 
an  hour  at  least,  all  which  time  I  was  riding  away  from 
here,  so  that  it  made  a  difference  of  fully  an  hour  in  the 
time  of  my  arriving.  That  hour  would,  in  all  probability, 
have  saved  the  child."  . 

Any  excuse  for  Harriet  would  have  seemed  an  accusation 
to  poor  Florence's  excited  mind,  and  I  was  silent,  but  as  the 
doctor  said,  "  That  hour  would  in  all  probability  have 
saved  the  child,"  her  cries  became  so  wild  and  distressing, 
that  I  moved  with  her  farther  from  the  house,  while  the 
doctor  returned  to  his  post. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Florence  ?"  said  I ;  "  why  are 
you  so  much  distressed  ?  Is  it  because  you  fear  the  baby 
will  die  ?" 

"  No,  no,  it's  because  I've  killed  him — oh !  I've  killed 
him,"  she  repeated,  with  almost  frantic  vehemence  ;  "the 
doctor  says  so  ;  the  doctor  says  if  Harriet  had  rode  he 
would  have  got  well,  and  I  would  not  let  Harriet  ride." 

I  never  felt  my  own  helplessness,  my  own  littleness,  and 
God's  supreme  power,  so  much  as  at  this  moment.  Here 
was  the  very  lesson  which  I  had  wished  to  teach  Florence, 


FLORENCE    ARNOTT.  139 

which  I  had  brought  her  there  to  learn,  the  great  evil  of 
her  selfishness.  I  had  wished  her  to  see  that  pale,  suffer 
ing  baby — to  feel  grieved — to  be  angry  with  herself,  that 
for  a  trifling  amusement  she  had  been  willing  to  prolong 
those  sufferings,  to  lengthen  out  his  mother's  sorrow, — 
perhaps,  to  make  the  lesson  more  impressive,  I  would  have 
been  willing  that  Florence  should  feel  for  some  minutes  an 
apprehension  that  the  disease  would  terminate  fatally. 
But  here  was  no  vain  apprehension  ;  the  child  was,  to  all 
appearance,  dying ;  his  physician  believed  that  he  would 
die,  and  I  felt  that,  if  he  did,  Florence  would  always  suf 
fer  from  the  conviction  that  she  had  caused  his  death. 
As  I  heard  her  frantic  cries,  and  saw  her  agitated  frame, 
I  trembled  for  the  consequences.  I  stood  awed  before  that 
Almighty  Being  who  was  teaching  me  as  well  as  her,  the 
great  sin  of  selfishness,  the  suffering  which  follows  all 
sin,  was  teaching  us  that  the  only  path  of  safety  is  that 
narrow  path  of  right-doing  which  He  has  marked  out  for 
us,  and  that  the  slightest  wandering  from  this  path  might 
lead  to  woes  of  which  we  had  not  even  dreamed.  These 
are  solemn  lessons,  which  I  hope  my  little  readers  will 
learn  from  the  example  of  others,  that  they  may  never, 
like  Florence,  be  taught  them  in  their  own  persons. 

In  my  fears  for  Florence  I  could  find  no  comfort,  but  in 
the  remembrance  that  God,  her  great  Teacher,  was  also 
her  loving  Father.  While  I  was  standing  beside  her,  un 
able  to  speak,  striving,  with  mute  caresses,  to  sooth  her 
agony,  with  a  sudden  movement  she  looked  up  to  me,  ex 
claiming,  "  Oh  !  beg  the  doctor  to  make  him  well." 

"  The  doctor,  my  dear  Florence,  cannot  make  him 
well ;  God  only  can  do  that." 

"Well,  beg  God,  then." 

"  I  will,  dear  Florence,  and  so  may  you,  for  He  is  as 
near  to  you  as  to  me,  and  He  hears  the  simplest  prayer  of 
the  simplest  child." 

In  an  instant  she  was  on  her  knees  beside  me,  exclaim, 
ing,  in  the  most  imploring  tones,  "  Oh,  God !  please  to 
make  the  baby  well, — oh !  please  to  make  him  well." 

Florence  had  often  said  her  prayers,  but  this  was  proba 
bly  the  first  time  she  had  ever  prayed  from  the  heart.  I 
stooped  down  to  her,  and  said — "  And  please  take  this 
wicked  selfishness  from  the  heart  of  Florence,  that  she 


140  FLORENCE    ARNOTT. 

may  not  do  such  great  wrong  again,  and  bring  such 
sorrow  on  herself  and  others."  She  repeated  my  words 
slowly  and  solemnly,  adding,  "  and  oh  !  please  make  the 
baby  well,"  and  concluding  her  prayer  with  the  sacred 
form  to  which  she  had  been  accustomed,  "  For  Christ's 
sake,  Amen,"  she  rose  up  comparatively  calm.  Hers 
had  been  a  prayer  of  such  simple  faith  as  none  but  a 
simple-hearted  child,  and  those  who,  in  the  words  of  our 
Saviour,  become  as  little  children,  can  offer,  and  such 
prayer  always  brings  consolation. 

"Now,  Aunt  Kitty,  let  us  go  back  to  the  house:" — 
seeing  I  hesitated,  Florence  added,  "  you  need  not  be  afraid 
that  I  will  make  any  noise  ;  I  will  be  veiy  still.  I  only 
want  to  go  where  I  can  see  him." 

The  fear  that  Florence  would  make  a  noise  had  not 
been  the  cause  of  my  hesitation.  It  was  on  her  own  ac 
count.  I  had  wished  Florence,  as  I  have  already  said, 
to  feel  the  evil  of  her  selfishness  ;  I  did  not  wish  her  to 
forget  the  pain  she  had  suffered  and  was  suffering  ;  I 
would  not  have  driven  away,  if  I  could,  the  serious 
thoughts  which  were  now  in  her  mind ;  but  her  agitation 
had  been  so  great  as  to  make  me  very  anxious,  and  I 
hesitated  to  take  her  back  where  she  might  be  yet  further 
excited.  She  appeared,  however,  so  much  in  earnest  in 
her  wish,  that,  after  a  little  consideration,  I  thought  it 
wisest  to  indulge  her,  and  we  returned  to  the  house.  Flor 
ence  seated  herself  on  a  low  stool  by  Margaret,  on  whose 
lap  the  baby  now  lay,  and  watched  him  with  scarcely  less 
constancy  than  his  mother.  Her  lips  frequently  moved, 
and  I  had  no  doubt  that  she  was  again  asking  God  to 
make  him  well. 

I  will  not  weary  you  by  telling  you  how  long  we 
watched  there,  or  through  what  changes  the  little  sufferer 
passed.  The  sun  was  not  yet  set,  when  his  symptoms 
were  so  materially  amended  that  the  doctor  said  to  Mrs. 
O'Donnel,  "  Now,  my  good  woman,  be  comforted  ;  your 
child  is  better,  and  will,  I  hope,  with  care,  soon  be  well." 

The  poor  mother  had  uttered  no  sound  for  many  hours, 
but  now  her  long-smothered  feelings  burst  out.  With  a 
wild  cry  she  started  up,  and,  holding  out  her  arms,  would 
have  caught  her  child  to  her  bosom ;  but  the  doctor,  push 
ing  her  back  into  her  seat,  whispered,  "  Hush/  hush — he 


FLORENCE    ARNOTT.  141 

is  sensible  now,  and  you  may  frighten  him  into  another 

She  hushed  her  cry  in  a  moment,  and  remained  quiet  in 
her  chair  ;  but  she  burst  into  tears  and  wept  piteously. 
As  soon  as  she  recovered  her  voice,  she  exclaimed,  "  God 
bless  you,  sir;  God  bless  you  all,  for  it's  good  you've 
been  to  me,  watching  by  the  poor,  lone  woman's  child,  as 
if  he  had  been  the  rich  man's  son.  And  he  will  be  bet 
ter,  you  say,  before  Pat  comes.  Oh !  glad  am  I,  poor  fel 
low,  that  he  didn't,  see  him  at  the  worst." 

When  I  could  look  around  for  Florence,  she  had  left  the 
cabin.  I  went  out  and  saw  her  standing  by  the  carriage, 
which  had  been  some  time  waiting  for  us.  She  was 
speaking  eagerly  to  Henry,  and  as  she  turned  to  meet  me, 
I  saw  that  she  looked  much  excited,  though  very  happy. 
I  found,  too,  that  her  head  and  hands  were  feverish  to  the 
touch,  and  I  became  very  anxious  to  get  her  quietly  home. 
When  I  proposed  going,  however,  Florence  replied,  "  Not 
yet,"  and  turned  towards  the  house. 

I  put  my  arm  around  her,  and  drawing  her  to  me,  said 
very  seriously,  "  Florence,  you  asked  God  a  little  while 
ago  to  take  away  all  selfishness  from  your  heart.  Do  you 
remember  it  ?" 

"  Yes,"  she  immediately  replied,  "  and  I  hope  he  will, 
now  that  He  has  made  the  baby  well." 

"  I  am  sure  He  will,  Florence,  if  you  only  show  that 
you  were  sincere  in  asking  it,  by  watching  your  own  feel 
ings,  and  resisting  your  selfish  inclinations." 

"  Well,  so  I  will,"  said  Florence. 

"  Then,  my  love,  you  will  do  now  as  I  wish  you.  By 
remaining  longer  here  you  may  make  yourself  sick  from 
fatigue  and  excitement,  and  so,  for  the  gratification  of  your 
own  inclinations,  give  great  pain  to  me  and  to  all  who  love 
you.  This  would  be  selfish,  would  it  not  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Florence,  "  so  it  would,  though  I  did  not  know 
it ;"  and  she  entered  the  carriage  without  further  hesitation. 

This  was  probably  the  first  time  that  Florence  had  ever 
voluntarily  yielded  her  own  wishes  to  those  of  another — 
the  first  generous  act  she  had  ever  performed.  It  may 
seem  to  my  readers  a  very  little  thing,  but  I  felt  that  Flor 
ence  had  resisted  herself,  had  conquered  herself,  and  this 
is  never  a  little  thing. 


142  FLORENCE    ARNOTT. 


When  we  got  home  I  sent  the  carriage  on  for  Harriet, 
and  giving  Florence  her  tea  without  any  delay,  went 
with  her,  early  as  it  was,  to  her  room,  promising,  if  she 
went  to  bed  at  once,  to  sit  with  her  till  she  slept.  She 
had  been  accustomed  by  her  mother  to  say  her  prayers 
aloud,  and  I  was  glad  to  hear,  as  I  listened  to  her  this 
evening,  that  she  did  not  forget  to  thank  God  for  making 
little  Jem  well.  She  was  very  much  disposed  to  talk  when 
she  had  lain  down  ;  but  as  I  was  desirous  to  keep  her  as 
quiet  as  possible,  I  told  her  that  in  the  morning  I  would 
hear  all  she  had  to  say,  and  that  now  I  would  tell  her  a 
story  of  her  mother  and  myself  when  we  were  children. 
A  story  was  what  of  all  things  Florence  most  liked  to 
hear,  so  she  was  very  attentive  to  me,  and  begged,  when  I 
had  ended  one,  that  I  would  tell  her  another.  I  took  care 
that  the  second  should  not  be  very  interesting,  and  before 
it  was  finished,  Florence  was  in  a  sleep  which,  though  at 
first  disturbed  and  nervous,  soon  became  quiet,  and  from 
which  she  did  not  awake  till  the  sun  was  shining  brightly 
on  another  day. 


CHAPTER    X. 

A  GOOD  BEGINNING. 

"WELL,  Harriet,"  said  Dr.  Franks,  as  he  came  into  our 
breakfast  room  before  we  had  risen  from  table,  "  I  was  half 
angry  with  you  yesterday,  when  I  thought  you  had  ridden 
to  my  house  and  then  turned  back  and  sent  a  boy  for  me, 
instead  of  following  me  yourself.  But  my  wife  saved  you 
a  scolding  by  telling  me  you  walked  there.  And  now, 
Miss  Simple,  pray  what  was  that  for  ?  Of  what  use  is 
your  pony  if  he  cannot  bring  you  for  a  doctor  when  a  child 
is  in  convulsions  ?" 

Harriet  colored  and  looked  confused,  but  Florence  colored 
still  more  deeply.  I.  saw  that  the  doctor  expected  an  an 
swer,  and  both  the  children  looked-  at  me  to  explain,  but  I 
would  not  interfere.  The  doctor  seemed  annoyed  at  our 
silence,  and  catching  hold  of  Mary  Mackay,  who  was  just 
entering  the  parlor,  he  drew  her  forward,  saying,  "Why, 


FLORENCE  ARNOTT.  143 

Mary  Wild,"  a  name  he  had  long  given  her,  "could  not 
have  done  a  more  thoughtless  thing." 

Low  and  hesitatingly,  Florence  spoke,  "  It  was  not  Har 
riet's  fault." 

"  It  was  not  Harriet's  fault !"  the  doctor  impatiently  re- 
peated  ;  "  whose  fault  was  it  then,  pray  ?" 

"It  was  mine," — the  first  difficulty  conquered,  Florence 
spoke  more  boldly — "  It  was  mine.  I  was  riding  the  pony, 
and  would  not  let  her  have  him." 

I  knew  Dr.  Franks  well,  and  I  saw  that  he  was  about  to 
reply  to  this  with  a  severity  which,  however  Florence  might 
have  deserved  the  day  before,  would  then  have  been  cruel ; 
so  before  he  could  speak,  I  drew  her  to  me,  and  said,  "  Not 
a  word  of  blame,  doctor,  for  Florence  has  already  said 
harder  things  to  herself  than  you  can  say  to  her.  Besides, 
you  would  have  known  nothing  of  it  but  for  her,  and  she 
must  not  suffer  for  her  truth  telling." 

I  was  pleased  with  this  little  incident,  for  though  Flor 
ence  had  only  done  justice  to  Harriet,  selfishness  often 
makes  us  unjust  as  well  as  ungenerous  ;  and  I  knew  to  tell 
the  truth  as  fully  as  she  had  done,  must  have  given  her 
great  pain.  I  was  glad,  too,  to  find  that  Harriet  and  Mary 
both  seemed  to  feel  this,  and  were  very  cordial  and  pleasant 
in  their  manner  to  her  afterwards. 

The  next  afternoon  we  went  to  the  farm  where  we  were 
to  find  the  best  cherries  in  the  neighborhood ;  and  there 
Florence's  new  principle  of  action  displayed  itself  frequent 
ly.  She  was  evidently  on  the  watch  for  opportunities  to  be 
generous.  The  best  place  under  the  trees,  the  finest  cher 
ries,  for  which  she  would  once  have  striven,  she  now  pressed 
upon  Harriet  and  Mary;  and  whenever  she  had  thus  con 
quered  her  former  habits,  she  would  turn  her  eyes  to  me 
with  a  timid  appeal  -for  my  approval.  But  the  act  on  which 
she  evidently  most  valued  herself,  was,  asking  to  return  in 
the  carriage,  and  so  giving  up  the  pony  to  Harriet,  when 
we  were  going  home. 

It  was  but  a  few  days  after  this  that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ar- 
nott  came  for  Florence,  on  their  way  home  from  the  Vir 
ginia  Springs.  During  these  few  days,  she  continued  to 
manifest  the  same  earnest  desire  to  correct  her  faults.  I 
told  her  father  arid  mother  of  the  interesting  scenes  through 
which  she  had  passed,  and  of  what  seemed  to  be  their  happy 


144  FLORENCE    ARNOTT. 

result.  Mrs.  Arnott  shed  tears,  and  Mr.  Arnott  shook  my 
hand  repeatedly,  declaring  that  I  had  done  more  for  their 
happiness  than  I  could  conceive,  if  I  had  brought  Florence 
to  see  and  endeavor  to  correct  this  one  great  fault. 

The  evening  before  we  parted,  I  had  a  conversation  with 
Florence  which  interested  me  very  much.  We  were  walk 
ing,  and  I  had  purposely  taken  the  path  which  led  by  Mrs. 
O'Donnel's  cabin.  When  we  came  in  sight  of  it,  Mrs. 
O'Donnel  was  standing  at  the  door  with  little  Jem,  now 
quite  well,  in  her  arms.  We  spoke  to  her  as  we  passed, 
and  then  Florence  said,  "  I  shall  always  love  little  Jem, 
Aunt  Kitty." 

"  Why,  Florence  ?" 

"  Because,  if  it  had  not  been  for  him  I  should  not  have 
found  out  what  a  selfish  child  I  was,  or  have  learned  to  be 
generous." 

"  And  do  you  think  you  have  learned  to  be  generous, 
Florence  ?" 

She  colored  and  seemed  confused  for  a  moment,  then 
looking  up  in  my  face  said,  with  great  simplicity,  "  I  hope 
so.  Do  you  not  think  I  have  ?" 

"  I  think  you  are  learning,  and  learning  very  fast.  It 
was  fortunate,  dear  Florence,  that  you  discovered  the  evil 
of  your  selfish  habits  while  you  were  so  young ;  but  the 
habits  even  of  ten  years  are  not  to  be  broken  in  a  day. 
You  will  often  find  it  difficult  to  resist  them.  If  you  will 
write  to  me  when  you  go  away,  and  tell  me  all  the  diffi 
culties  and  trials  you  meet  in  your  efforts  to  conquer  them, 
I  may  sometimes  be  able  to  help  you.  Will  you  do  this  ? 
Will  you  write  to  me  ?" 

"  Write  to  you  !  oh  !  I  shall  like  it, — at  least  I  shall  like 
to  get  your  letters,  and  read  mamma  just  as  much  as  I 
choose  of  them." 

"  But  you  must  remember,  Florence,  that  my  object  in 
our  correspondence  will  be  to  give  you  my  aid  in  learning 
to  be  generous.  That  I  may  be  able  to  do  this,  you  must 
be  very  honest  with  me,  and  tell  me  whenever  you  have 
done,  or  even  been  tempted  to  do  a  selfish  thing." 

"  May  I  not  tell  you,  too,  when  I  have  been  generous  ?" 

"  Certainly,  my  dear ;  tell  me  all  you  wish  to  tell  me  of 
yourself,  I  shall  be  glad  to  hear  it  all ;  but  I  hope  you  will 
soon  feel  that  you  have  a  great  deal  more  to  tell  me  of  your 


FLORENCE    ARNOTT.  145 

selfishness,  than  of  your  generosity."  Florence  looked  at 
me  in  speechless  surprise.  "  Because,  Florence,  I  hope 
you  will  soon  become  really  generous,  generous  at  heart, 
and  then  those  things  which,  now  that  you  are  only  trying 
to  be  generous,  it  is  hard  for  you  to  do,  which  you  notice 
because  they  are  done  with  a  great  effort,  will  be  so  easy 
and  so  common  that  you  will  forget  to  tell  me  about  them — 
that  you  will  not  even  notice  them  yourself." 

"  But  how,  when  I  get  to  be  so  generous,  can  I  have  any 
selfishness  to  write  you  about?" 

"  Ah,  Florence !  we  are  never  quite  free  from  selfish- 
ness,  any  of  us,  and  the  more  generous  we  become,  the 
more  plainly  do  we  see  selfishness  in  acts  and  feelings 
which  seemed  to  us  quite  free  from  it  once.  Do  you  not 
feel  this  yourself?  Do  not  things  seem  selfish  to  you 
now,  which  only  a  week  ago  you  did  not  think  so  at  all  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Florence,  in  a  low  voice,  and  then  walked 
thoughtfully  and  silently  by  my  side. 

The  next  morning  Florence  returned  home,  and  I  did 
not  see  her  again  for  nearly  eighteen  months.  But  I  heard 
from  her  often,  for  our  correspondence  commenced  very 
soon.  Her  first  letters  were  filled  with  her  own  generous  acts, 
— how  she  had  risen  early  when  she  was  very  sleepy,  that 
she  might  not  keep  nurse  waiting — how  she  had  sat  quite 
still  almost  all  day,  when  she  had  wanted  to  run  about  very 
much,  because  mamma  was  not  well,  and  would  have  been 
disturbed  by  noise — how  she  had  given  her  cousin  Mary 
her  very  prettiest  book,  because  she  said  she  liked  it.  But 
it  was  not  long  before  Florence  began  to  write  of  her  grief 
for  selfish  feelings,  which,  to  use  her  own  language,  "  if 
she  tried  ever  so  hard  to  get  rid  of  them,  would  come  back." 
Once  or  twice  a  letter  came  from  her  full  of  the  bitterest 
shame  and  self-reproach  for  the  selfishness  of  some  action, 
which,  a  little  while  before,  Florence  would  not  have  felt 
to  be  in  the  least  degree  wrong.  I  rejoiced  at  all  this,  for 
I  saw  it  was  as  I  hoped  ;  Florence  was  becoming  generous 
at  heart — selfishness  was  becoming  a  hateful  thing  to  her, 
and  a  strange  thing,  which  like  other  strange  things,  could 
not  make  its  appearance  without  being  noticed.  I  would 
copy  some  of  these  letters  for  you,  but  I  have  other  things 
to  tell  you  of  Florence,  which  I  think  will  interest  you 
more  than  her  letters. 

13 


146  FLORENCE    ARNOTT. 


CHAPTER    XI. 

A   NEW    CREATURE. 

ALMOST  eighteen  months  after  Florence  had  left  us, 
came  that  bright  and  beautiful  winter's  morning  which  I 
described  to  you  at  the  commencement  of  this  book.  You 
may  remember  that  on  that  morning  I  accompanied  Harriet 
and  Mary  to  Mr.  Dickinson's  to  hear  a  play,  which  was  to 
form  part  of  their  Christmas  entertainments,  and  that  on 
returning  home,  I  found  Mr.  Arnott's  carriage  waiting  for 
me.  The  driver  brought  a  letter  from  Florence,  begging 
me  to  come  as  soon  as  possible  to  her  sick  and  sorrowing 
mother.  The  letter  was  short,  and  did  not  tell  me  what 
was  the  cause  of  Mrs.  Arnott's  distress.  I  immediately 
packed  a  trunk,  and  sending  Harriet  home  with  Mary,  pre 
pared  for  my  journey.  It  was  one  o'clock,  however,  be 
fore,  with  my  utmost  haste,  I  could  set  out,  and  the  roads 
were  so  filled  up  with  the  snow  of  the  previous  night,  that 
we  travelled  slowly,  and  I  had  gone  little  more  than  half 
way  when  the  short  winter's  day  was  over.  I  therefore 
stopped  all  night  at  the  same  little  inn  where  I  had  dined 
when  going  to  Mr.  Arnott's  with  Harriet  and  Mary.  The 
next  morning  I  was  again  on  the  road  so  early  that  I  ar 
rived  at  Mr.  Arnott's  before  breakfast, — indeed,  before  any 
of  the  family,  except  Florence,  was  up.  She  did  not  ex 
pect  me  so  early,  and  I  entered  the  house  so  quietly,  that  I 
stood  in  the  parlor  with  her  before  she  knew  that  I  had  ar 
rived. 

No  one  who  had  seen  the  face  of  Florence,  as  her  eye 
rested  on  me,  could  have  doubted  her  delight  at  seeing  me  ; 
yet,  surprised  and  delighted  as  she  was,  she  made  no  ex 
clamation,  but  coming  close  to  me,  put  her  arms  around 
me,  and  kissing  me  repeatedly,  said,  in  a  very  low  voice, 
almost  a  whisper,  "How  kind  you  were,  Aunt  Kitty,  to 
come  so  quickly  !  We  did  not  think  you  could  be  here  be 
fore  this  evening." 

In  the  same  low  tone  I  answered,  "  Your  letter  made  me 


FLORENCE    ARNOTT.  147 

too  anxious  to  admit  of  any  unnecessary  delay.  But  how 
is  your  mother  now  ?" 

"  She  will  be  better,  I  am  sure,  when  she  sees  you,  for  I 
think  it  is  agitation  which  has  made  mamma  ill.  She  slept 
but  little  last  night,  and  is  asleep  now,  which  makes  me  try 
to  keep  every  thing  quiet." 

While  Florence  was  speaking,  she  was  helping  me  to 
take  off  my  cloak  and  bonnet.  Then  drawing  a  large 
rocking-chair  before  the  fire,  she  seated  me  in  it,  and  kneel 
ing  down  by  me,  loosened  the  lacings  of  the  moccasins 
which  I  had  worn  over  my  shoes  in  travelling,  and  took 
them  off.  Before  she  rose,  she  rested  her  head  for  a  mo 
ment  affectionately  on  my  shoulder,  and  said,  "  Aunt  Kitty, 
I  am  very,  very  glad  to  see  you  again." 

Florence  was  greatly  changed  in  appearance  as  well  as 
in  manners,  since  we  parted.  She  had  left  me,  a  child, 
looking  even  younger  than  Harriet,  though,  in  reality,  two 
years  older  ;  but  a  year  and  a  half  had  passed,  and  she 
had  grown  so  rapidly,  that,  though  not  yet  thirteen,  she 
might  easily  have  passed  for  fourteen  or  fifteen.  Her  face, 
too,  had  changed.  Florence  had  always  been  spoken  of 
as  a  pretty  child.  I  suppose  she  was  so,  for  she  had  a  fair, 
smooth  skin,  very  dark,  glossy,  and  curling  hair,  and  fine 
eyes  ;  yet  her  face  never  particularly  pleased  me,  and 
even  those  who  talked  of  her  beauty,  did  not  seem  to  care 
much  about  looking  at  her.  But  now  there  was  a  sweet 
thoughtfulness  and  peacefulness  in  her  countenance,  which 
made  me  turn  my  eyes  again  and  again  on  her  with  in 
creasing  love.  Not  that  I  loved  her  for  being  beautiful, 
but  for  the  serious  and  gentle  spirit,  which  I  was  sure  had 
given  the  expression,  of  which  I  have  spoken,  to  her  coun 
tenance, — which  would  have  given  the  same  expression  to 
the  plainest  features,  and  which  I  would  advise  all  my  little 
readers  to  cultivate,  if  they  are  desirous  of  beauty — that 
beauty  which  all  admire  most,  and  which  nothing,  not  even 
old  age  or  disease,  can  destroy. 

But  these  changes  in  appearance  were  by  no  means  the 
most  important  which  I  already  saw  in  Florence.  In  every 
word  and  action  I  saw  that  she  was  thinking  more  of  others 
than  of  herself.  I  have  told  you  how  quietly  she  received 
me,  never  forgetting,  in  her  surprise  at  my  unexpected  ap 
pearance,  that  a  loud  exclamation  from  her  might  awaken 


148  FLORENCE    ARNOTT. 

and  agitate  her  mother,  while  for  my  comfort  she  seemed 
equally  considerate.  My  readers  will,  perhaps,  think  that 
these  things  were  little  worthy  of  notice,  and  gave  slight  proof 
of  any  great  change  of  character  in  Florence — slight  assur 
ance  that  she  had  conquered  her  selfishness.  But  in  this 
they  are  mistaken.  It  is  precisely  in  these  little  things 
which  occur  daily,  hourly,  in  the  life  of  each  of  us,  that  a 
generous  nature  shows  itself  most  truly.  A  very  selfish 
person  may,  on  some  rare  occasion,  make  a  great  display 
of  generosity, — may  even  be  excited  into  doing  a  really 
generous  action,  but  it  is  only  the  generous  in  heart  who 
can  be  generous  daily,  hourly,  in  little  as  in  great  things, 
without  excitement  and  without  effort.  Some  of  my  young 
friends  may  have  been  accustomed  to  think  themselves  very 
generous,  yet  to  keep  their  generosity,  as  fine  ladies  keep 
their  diamonds,  only  to  be  exhibited  on  great  occasions. 
Let  me  assure  them  that  if  it  is  not  shown,  too,  in  every 
day  life — in  thoughtfulness  of  the  feelings  of  others,  readi 
ness  to  yield  their  own  gratifications  for  the  advantage  of 
others — it  is  no  true  diamond  of  generosity,  but  only  some 
worthless  imitation.  Others,  perhaps,  have  wished  that 
they  had  opportunities  of  showing  how  generous  they  are. 
Let  them  now  learn  that  they  have  such  opportunities  every 
day — every  hour.  Whenever  your  parents  call  on  you  to 
do  what  is  not  agreeable  to  your  inclinations,  and  you  obey 
them  cheerfully,  pleasantly,  instead  of  showing  by  your 
ill-humor  that  you  only  do  not  disobey  because  you  dare 
not,  you  are  sacrificing  your  own  inclinations  to  promote 
their  pleasure,  and  in  so  doing  you  are  generous.  When 
ever  you  give  up  the  plays  you  like  best,  the  walks  you 
most  admire,  and  choose  those  which  you  know  will  give 
the  greatest  pleasure  to  your  companions,  you  are  gener 
ous.  You  will  now  be  able  to  judge  for  yourselves  of  the 
alteration  in  Florence's  character,  from  her  conduct  under 
the  circumstances  I  am  about  to  relate  to  you,  and  I  need  not, 
therefore,  trouble  you  again  with  such  long  explanations. 

Soon  after  my  arrival,  Florence  left  the  parlor,  saying 
she  would  go  to  the  kitchen  and  tell  them  to  bring  up  our 
breakfast,  as  she  did  not  like  to  ring  the  bell,  which  was 
very  loud.  She  returned  in  a  few  minutes,  followed  by  a 
servant  with  the  breakfast  tray.  As  we  seated  ourselves 
at  table,  I  inquired  for  Mr.  Arnott. 


FLORENCE    ARNOTT.  149 

"  He  is  asleep  still,"  said  Florence.  "  He  told  me  last 
night  to  call  him  before  breakfast,  so  I  went  to  his  room 
just  now  to  do  it ;  but  I  knew  he  had  been  up  a  great  deal 
with  mamma  last  night,  and  he  seemed  to  sleep  so  sweetly, 
that  I  just  said,  '  Papa,'  very  softly,  and  as  he  did  not  stir 
for  that,  I  came  out  as  quietly  as  I  could." 

"  So  if  I  had  not  been  here  you  would  have  breakfasted 
alone." 

"No— I  should  have  waited  for  papa — it  is  so  much 
pleasanter  to  breakfast  with  him." 

An  early  ride  is  a  great  quickener  of  the  appetite.  I 
was  consequently  somewhat  longer  than  usual  at  the  break 
fast  table,  and  before  I  had  risen,  Mr.  Arnott  appeared. 
After  welcoming  me  very  cordially,  he  kissed  Florence, 
saying,  however,  as  he  did  so,  "  You  deserve  to  lose  your 
kiss  for  not  calling  me  this  morning.  You  should  never 
break  a  promise,  Florence,  however  trifling  it  may  seem 
to  you." 

"  I  kept  my  promise,  papa,  and  called  you.  Indeed  I 
did,"  she  added,  as  Mr.  Arnott  shook  his  head,  "  though  I 
acknowledge  I  did  it  very  softly." 

"  Ah,  Florence !  we  are  told  of  people  who,  only  seem 
ing  to  keep  their  promises,  are  said  '  to  keep  the  word  of 
promise  to  the  ear;'  but  you  did  not  even  keep  yours  to 
the  ear,  at  least  not  to  my  ear,  for  I  heard  nothing  of  your 
call." 

"  But  you  believe  I  did  call  you,  papa,"  said  Florence, 
earnestly. 

"  Certainly,  my  daughter,  I  believe  what  you  tell  me, 
but  I  would  have  you  remember  that  promises  should  be 
kept  in  the  sense  in  which  they  are  made,  and  that,  though 
it  should  be  at  some  inconvenience  to  ourselves." 

"  I  will  remember  it,  papa,  but  it  was  your  inconveni 
ence  I  was  thinking  of,  when  I  did  not  awake  you,"  said 
FJorence,  smiling. 

"  I  do  not  doubt  that,"  said  her  father. 

While  Mr.  Arnott  and  I  were  conversing,  Florence  was 
called  out  of  the  parlor,  and  as  soon  as  the  door  closed  on 
her,  he  interrupted  some  observation  he  was  making  on 
the  state  of  the  roads,  to  say,  "  I  am  truly  obliged  to  you 
for  coming  so  quickly,  for  it  is  necessary  that  I  should 
leave  home  immediately  on  very  important  business,  which 

13* 


150  FLORENCE    ARNOTT. 

I  will  more  fully  explain  to  you  before  I  go  ;  yet  I  have 
not  been  willing  even  to  announce  my  intention  of  going, 
till  my  poor  wife  could  have  the  support  of  your  pres 
ence." 

When  Florence  returned,  Mr.  Arnott  asked,  "  Where  is 
Rover,  that  he  does  not  come  to  share  my  breakfast  this 
morning  ?" 

"  Why,  is  my  old  friend  Rover  still  alive  ?"  said  I ;  "  I 
wonder  he  has  not  been  here  to  welcome  me." 

"  He  would  have  been,  I  dare  say,  Aunt  Kitty,  for  Ro 
ver  never  forgets  his  friends,  but  he  is  three  miles  away 
from  here  now,"  and  in  spite  of  Florence's  efforts  to  speak 
carelessly,  her  voice  trembled. 

"  Three  miles  away  from  here !  What  do  you  mean, 
Florence  ?"  said  Mr.  Arnott. 

"  Just  what  I  said,  papa.  Edward  Morton  lives  three 
miles  away,  does  he  not  ?  Rover  belongs  to  him  now." 

Florence  spoke  very  fast,  and  turned  her  face  away 
from  her  father,  so  that  he  did  not  see,  as  I  did,  that  her  lip 
was  quivering,  and  her  eyes  were  full  of  tears. 

"  Why,  Florence,  I  am  surprised  at  you.  I  would  not 
have  believed  it  possible  that  you  could  part  with  Rover  to 
any  one.  I  thought  you  loved  him  almost  as  well  as  he 
loved  you." 

Mr.  Arnott  spoke  almost  angrily  at  this  proof,  as  he 
thought  it,  of  want  of  kindness  in  his  daughter  for  her  old 
playfellow.  Florence,  unable  longer  to  control  herself, 
burst  into  tears,  and  sobbing,  said,  "  So  I  do,  papa,  love 
Rover  just  as  well  as  he  loves  me,  and  yet  I  do  not  feel 
sorry  he  is  gone,  for  nurse  said  he  kept  mamma  awake  at 
night  barking  under  her  window  ;  and  you  know  we  could 
not  keep  him  out  of  her  room  in  the  day,  and  when  she 
was  nervous  and  in  pain,  I  saw  it  worried  her  to  have  him 
there." 

Mr.  Arnott's  eyes  glistened  as  he  drew  his  daughter  tg 
him,  and  kissed  and  soothed  her.  I  remembered  the  scene 
with  Rover  and  the  ball  during  my  last  visit  to  Mrs.  Ar 
nott,  and,  I  dare  say,  my  readers  will  remember  it  too. 
After  a  while  Mr.  Arnott  said,  "  Well,  Florence,  it  was 
very  right  in  you  to  think  of  your  mother's  comfort,  and  I 
suppose  I  must  reconcile  myself  to  parting  with  Rover  for 
a  time — but  only  for  a  time,  Florence ;  when  your  mother 


FLORENCE    ARNOTT.  151 

gets  well,  Edward,  I  doubt  not,  will  give  him  back  to 
you." 

"  Perhaps  he  would,  papa,  but — "  Florence  hesitated, 
looked  in  her  father's  face,  colored,  and  looked  down  again. 

"  But  what,  Florence  ?  Surely  you  would  like  to  have 
Rover  back." 

"  To  be  sure  I  would,  papa,  but  I  thought  a  great  deal 
about  it  before  I  gave  Rover  away,  and  I  chose  Edward 
Morton  to  give  him  to,  because  I  knew  he  would  love  Ro 
ver  and  take  good  care  of  him ;  and  do  you  think,  papa,  it 
would  be  right,  after  Edward  gets  to  love  him  almost  as 
well  as  I  do,  to  ask  him  to  give  him  up  ?" 

"  No,  my  daughter,  it  would  not  be  right.  You  have 
thought  very  justly." 

I  could  not  help  adding,  "  And  very  generously  too." 

Florence  colored  with  pleasure  at  our  approbation ;  but 
Mrs.  Arnott's  bell  rang,  and  she  left  us  at  once  to  inform 
her  mother  of  my  arrival. 


CHAPTER    XII. 

CLOUDS     AND     SUNSHINE. 

MATTERS  of  business  are  never,  I  think,  very  interesting 
to  young  persons.  I  will  not,  therefore,  attempt  to  give  you 
a  very  particular  account  of  the  circumstances  from  which 
Mr.  Arnott's  present  perplexities  and  his  wife's  sorrowful 
anticipations  arose.  All  that  is  necessary  for  you  to  know, 
is  soon  told. 

Mr.  Arnott  had  some  years  before  placed  in  the  hands 
of  a  merchant,  who  was  an  old  and  valued  friend,  a  large 
sum  of  money  to  be  employed  for  him — so  large  a  sum 
that,  if  lost,  he  would  be  no  longer  a  wealthy  man.  His 
pleasant  home  must  then  be  given  up,  and  his  wife  and 
daughter  be  deprived  of  many  of  those  comforts  to  which 
they  had  been  accustomed,  and  which  delicate  health  made 
almost  necessary  to  Mrs.  Arnott's  life.  This  merchant, 
who  had  resided  in  Montreal,  had  lately  died  very  sudden- 


152  FLORENCE    ARNOTT. 

ly.  Not  long  before  his  death,  some  changes  had  taken 
place  in  his  business  which  made  new  arrangements  ne 
cessary  to  secure  Mr.  Arnott  from  loss.  He  had  urged  Mr. 
Arnott's  coming  to  Montreal,  as  an  interview  between  them 
was  very  desirable  before  the  completion  of  these  arrange- 
ments.  But  Mr.  Arnott  had  very  imprudently  delayed  go 
ing,  till  the  death  of  his  friend  had  made  the  evil  past  reme 
dy.  The  letter  which  announced  his  death,  mentioned 
also,  that  he  had  left  no  will — at  least  none  had  yet  been 
found — and  that  his  nephew  would  therefore  inherit  his 
property.  Mr.  Arnott  knew  this  nephew,  and  thought  him 
to  be  a  very  avaricious,  and  not  very  honorable  man,  and 
was  sure  that  he  would  take  every  advantage  of  what  he 
now  felt  to  be  his  own  culpable  negligence.  You  will 
easily  see  how  important  it  was,  under  such  circumstances, 
that  Mr.  Arnott  should  go  as  soon  as  possible,  and  examine 
for  himself,  whether  there  yet  remained  any  means  of 
making  good  his  claims. 

When  he  spoke  of  his  intended  departure,  Mrs.  Arnott 
turned  pale,  and  I  saw  that  she  was  much  agitated,  but  she 
tried  both  to  look  and  to  speak  cheerfully.  Florence,  to 
whom  it  was  quite  a  new  thought,  could  not  so  command 
herself.  She  looked  from  her  father  to  her  mother,  said  in 
an  accent  of  the  utmost  surprise,  "  Go  away,  papa  ?"  and 
burst  into  tears. 

Mr.  Arnott  rose,  and  with  an  agitated  countenance  left 
the  room.  Mrs.  Arnott  knew  that  her  husband  had  much 
at  present  to  disturb  him,  much  which  would  make  any 
unhappiness  in  her  or  Florence  peculiarly  painful  to  him. 
He  was  parting  from  them  for  a  long  and  dangerous  win 
ter's  journey — he  left  her  in  feeble  health — knew  not  how 
long  he  might  be  detained  from  home,  or  whether  he  should 
ever  return  to  this  place  as  to  a  home.  As  soon  as  he  went 
out,  she  turned  to  Florence,  and  while  her  own  voice  trem 
bled  with  emotion,  said,  "  My  daughter,  we  must  not  let 
our  regret  make  us  selfish.  Remember,  your  father  is  the 
greatest  sufferer.  He  must  not  only  endure  the  pain  of 
parting,  but  he  goes  to  meet  great  difficulty  and' perplexity 
of  mind,  and  perhaps  much  hardship.  Let  us  do  our  best 
not  to  add  to  his  distress  by  ours.  To  leave  us  cheerful 
and  well,  will  do  much  to  keep  him  so."  Florence  tried 
to  subdue  her  sobs,  but  for  some  time  very  unsuccessfully. 


FLORENCE    ARNOTT.  153 

"  Go  to  your  own  room,  my  love,"  said  the  tender  mother, 
as  she  drew  Florence  to  her  and  kissed  her  cheek,  "  go  to 
your  own  room,  and  come  back  to  us  when  you  can  come 
with  a  happy  face.  It  is  not  an  easy  effort,  Florence,  but 
you  can  make  it,  I  am  sure,  for  your  father's  sake." 

Florence  went  to  her  room,  and  when,  in  about  an  hour, 
she  returned  to  us,  it  was  with  a  cheerful  face,  and  all  her 
usual  animation  of  manner;  and  though  I  often  saw  the 
tears  rush  to  her  eyes  when  her  father's  absence  was 
named,  I  never  again  saw  them  fall.  Even  when  he  went, 
in  their  parting  interview,  she  tried  to  look  and  speak 
cheerfully ;  and,  though  some  tears  would  not  be  restrain 
ed,  it  was  not  till  he  was  out  of  sight  and  hearing,  that  she 
gave  full  vent  to  her  sorrow. 

Mr.  Arnott  left  us  early  in  January.  The  weather, 
during  the  whole  of  this  month,  was  very  cold  and  stormy, 
and  the  bleak,  cheerless  days  seemed  drearier  than  ever 
after  his  departure.  Mrs.  Arnott's  health,  too,  continued 
delicate,  and  yet  I  felt  that  she  really  little  needed  me,  for 
she  could  not  have  a  more  careful  nurse,  a  more  tender 
comforter,  than  she  found  in  the  young  Florence. 

The  last  week  in  January  brought  letters  from  Mr.  Ar 
nott.  He  had  just  arrived  in  Montreal  when  he  wrote. 
Of  course  he  could  say  nothing  of  business,  but  he  was  safe 
and  well,  and  Mrs.  Arnott  felt  that  her  worst  apprehen 
sions  were  relieved.  She  had  tried  to  be  cheerful  before, 
she  was  now  cheerful  without  trying. 

February  opened  with  mild,  delightful  weather.  Flor 
ence  went  out  one  morning  for  a  walk,  but  she  soon  came 
back  with  a  bounding  step,  a  bright  color,  and  a  coun 
tenance  animated,  and  joyous.  "  Oh,  mamma  !"  she  ex 
claimed,  "it  is  a  most  delightful  day,  just  such  a  day  as 
you  used  to  enjoy  so  much  at  the  South.  I  almost  thought 
I  could  smell  the  jessamine  and  orange  flowers." 

"  Why,  Florence,"  said  Mrs.  Arnott,  "  you  almost 
tempt  me  to  go  out  too,"  and  she  looked  wistfully  from  the 
windows. 

"  And  why  not,  dear  mamma,  why  should  you  not  go 
too  ?  It  could  not  hurt  you — do  you  think  it  could  ? — to 
take  a  drive  in  this  bright,  sunshiny  day.  I  dare  say, 
Aunt  Kitty  would  enjoy  it,  too,"  turning  to  me. 

Mrs.  Arnott  smiled  ;  "  Not  such  a  drive  as  I  should  have 


154  FLORENCE    ARNOTT. 

strength  for,  Florence.  I  could  not  go  more  than  a  mile 
or  two,  and  that  must  be  in  the  close  carriage.  No,  no,  it 
would  be  a  very  dull  drive  for  both  of  you. 

"  Dull,  mamma,  a  dull  drive  with  you,  the  first  time  you 
were  able  to  go  out  after  being  so  long  sick  ?  I  am  sure 
Aunt  Kitty  does  not  think  so— do  you,  Aunt  Kitty  ?" 

"  No,  my  dear  ;  and,  I  think,  if  you  will  order  the  car 
riage,  that  your  mother  will  be  persuaded  to  try  it." 

Florence  was  off  like  an  arrow.  Every  thing  was  so 
soon  prepared  for  our  excursion,  that  Mrs.  Arnott  had  no 
time  to  change  her  mind.  Our  drive  was  a  very  quiet  one, 
yet  Mrs.  Arnott  enjoyed  keenly  the  change,  the  motion, 
and  the  little  air  which  she  ventured  to  admit.  To  see  her 
enjoyment  was  very  pleasant  to  me,  and  put  Florence  into 
the  gayest  spirits.  We  went  about  two  miles,  and  were 
again  approaching  home,  when  we  saw  a  handsome  open 
sleigh  coming  towards  us,  driven  by  a  gentleman,  and  al 
most  filled  with  young  people  of  Florence's  age.  The  bells 
drew  Mrs.  Arnott's  attention. 

"  Who  are  those,  Florence  ?  Can  you  see  at  this  distance  ?" 

"  It  looks  like  Mr.  Morton's  sleigh,  mamma,"  said 
Florence,  coloring.  "  But  I  did  not  think  they  would  come 
this  way,"  she  added. 

"  Come  this  way ! — to  go  where,  my  child  ?  Do  you 
know  where  they  are  going,  Florence  ?" 

"  Yes,  mamma,  they  are  going — at  least  they  were  go 
ing  to  M.,  to  see  some  animals  that  were  to  be  exhibited 
there  to-day." 

"  And  which  you  have  talked  so  much  of,  and  wished  so 
much  to  see.  I  think  it  was  scarcely  kind  in  Clara  and 
Edward  not  to  ask  you  to  go  with  them."0 

"  Oh,  mamma!  they  did  ask  me." 

"  And  why  did  you  not  go,  Florence  ?" 

"  I  meant  to  go,  mamma — that  is,  I  meant  to  ask  you 
this  morning  if  I  might  go,  but  I  thought — that  is — when 
you  talked  of  coming,  I  liked  so  much  better  to  come  with 
you  that  I  gave  it  up." 

"  That  is,"  said  Mrs.  Arnott,  smiling,  "  you  thought  I 
would  enjoy  my  drive  more  if  you  were  with  me,  and  you 
thought  very  truly,  but  you  should  not  have  broken  your 
promise,  Florence,  without  some  apology,  even  for  such  a 
reason." 


FLORENCE    ARNOTT.  155 

"  It  was  not  a  positive  promise,  mamma,  and  you  know 
it  would  not  take  them  out  of  their  way  at  all  to  stop  for 
me,  and  I  did  leave  a  note  for  Clara,  to  tell  her  why  I  did 
not  go.  But  what  can  bring  them  this  way,  I  wonder  ?" 

The  sleigh  was  now  quite  near,  and  the  gentleman  dri 
ver,  who  proved  to  be  Mr.  Morton  himself,  the  father  of 
Edward  and  Clara,  making  a  sign  to  our  coachman  to  stop, 
drew  up  alongside  of  our  carriage.  Giving  the  reins  to 
Edward,  Mr.  Morton  sprang  out,  and  opening  the  door  of 
the  carriage,  shook  his  finger  playfully  at  Florence,  say 
ing,  "  So,  young  lady,  this  is  your  good  manners,  is  it  ? — 
to  tell  not  only  young  ladies  and  gentlemen,  but  an  old 
man  like  me,  that  you  like  your  mother's  company  better 
than  ours,  with  all  the  lions,  and  elephants,  and  giraffes  to 
boot.  But  we  have  caught  you  at  last ; — I  may  take  her, 
may  I  not,  Mrs.  Arnott  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Mrs.  Arnott,  smiling  at  his  playfulness. 

"  How  kind  it  was'of  you,  Mr.  Morton,  to  come  so  much 
out  of  your  way  for  me  !" 

"  Kind,  was  it  ? — I  understand  your  wheedling  ways ; 
but  come  along,  Miss  Florence,  you  are  my  prisoner  now," 
and  snatching  up  the  laughing  Florence,  he  bore  her  in 
triumph  to  the  sleigh.  After  seating  her  there,  and  seeing 
that  she  was  carefully  wrapped  up,  he  turned  back  to  the 
carriage  with  more  grave  inquiries  after  Mrs.  Arnott's 
health,  and  assurances  that  he  would  take  good  care  of 
Florence. 

"  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you  for  coming  for  her," 
said  Mrs.  Arnott,  "  for  this  exhibition  is  one  which  she  has 
long  wished  to  see,  and  I  should  have  been  grieved  had  she 
lost  it." 

"  As  to  my  coming  for  her,  I  could  not  well  help  my 
self,"  said  the  good-humored  Mr.  Morton,  with  a  laugh. 
Then  turning  to  me,  he  added,  "Our  friend  Florence 
never  thinks  of  herself,  so  we  feel  obliged  to  think  a  great 
deal  of  her,  and  the  grave  looks  and  grumbling  tones  with 
which  the  announcement  that  she  would  not  go  with  us 
was  received,  showed  me  that  the  only  chance  I  had  of 
making  our  little  party  a  party  of  pleasure,  was  to  over 
take  and  capture  her.  You  were  easily  tracked  by  your 
wheels,  for  nobody  else  seems  willing  to  lose  the  little 
sleighing  which  this  fine  weather  will  probably  leave  us ; 


156  FLORENCE  ARNOTT. 

but,  fine  as  it  is,  I  am  keeping  you  out  too  long  in  it,"  see 
ing  Mrs.  Arnott  draw  her  cloak  more  closely  around  her, 
"  so  good-by." 

Hastily  mounting  his  sleigh,  he  drove  rapidly  off,  many 
a  hearty  laugh  and  gay  voice  mingling  their  music  with 
the  merry  bells. 

Another  letter  from  Mr.  Arnott  came  about  this  time, 
written  cheerfully,  hopefully,  though  he  had  not  yet  made 
even  an  effort  to  accomplish  the  objects  of  his  journey. 
This  delay  was  occasioned  by  the  absence  of  a  lawyer, 
who  had  always  been  employed  by  his  deceased  friend, 
Mr.  Atwater,  and  from  whom  Mr.  Arnott  hoped  to  receive 
important  information  and  advice.  He  had  been  absent 
when  Mr.  Atwater  died,  and  no  one  knew  enough  of  his 
movements  to  be  quite  certain  when  he  would  return,  yet 
Mr.  Arnott  determined  to  wait  his  arrival  as  patiently  as' 
he  could,  and  to  do  nothing  till  he  saw  him.  He  would 
probably  be  detained  but  a  short  time  after  seeing  him. 

From  the  day  this  letter  arrived,  Florence  began  to  pre 
pare  for  her  father's  return,  and  to  cast  many  an  eager 
glance  up  the  road  with  the  hope  of  seeing  him.  But  even 
her  father's  return  was  not  the  most  interesting  subject  of 
thought  to  Florence  just  now.  She  knew  the  apprehen 
sions  of  her  parents,  the  change  of  circumstances  which 
possibly  awaited  them.  For  herself,  this  change  of  cir 
cumstances  was  not  at  all  dreaded ;  for,  though  Florence 
loved  her  home,  and  would  be  sorry  to  leave  it,  she  thought 
it  would  be  almost  as  pleasant  to  live  in  a  beautiful  little 
cottage,  covered  over  with  roses  and  woodbine,  with  a 
pretty  flower-garden  before  the  door ;  and  to  raise  chick 
ens,  and  make  butter  and  cheese  for  the  market,  seemed 
to  her  delightful  employments.  Pleasant  as  this  picture 
was,  and  it  was  the  only  one  which  poverty  presented  to 
her,  Florence  saw  that  her  father  and  mother  did  not  re 
gard  it  with  quite  such  agreeable  feelings  as  herself,  and 
for  their  sakes  she  began  to  think  how  it  might  be  avoided. 

Mr.  Arnott  had  always  been  a  great  lover  of  music,  and 
to  this  part  of  Florence's  education  great  attention  had  been 
paid,  yet  I  had  never  heard  her  play  so  frequently  as  now. 
Had  she  not  been  afraid  of  wearying  her  mother,  she 
would,  I  think,  scarce  ever  have  left  her  piano.  She  sud 
denly  stopped,  one  morning,  when  I  was  the  only  person  in 


FLORENCE    ARNOTT.  157 

the  room  with  her,  in  the  midst  of  a  piece  of  music,  and 
turning  quickly  to  me,  said,  "  Aunt  Kitty,  do  you  not  think 
I  play  very  well  ?" 

I  was  amazed,  for  Florence  had  never  seemed  to  me  a 
vain  child.  I  looked  at  her — she  met  my  eye,  and  did  not 
seem  in  the  least  confused. 

"  Yes,  Florence,  I  think  you  do  play  very  well." 

"As  well  as  Miss  Delany  ?"  she  again  asked.  This 
was  a  young  lady  who  was  a  teacher  of  music,  and  whom 
I  had  once  heard  play  at  Mr.  Arnott's. 

Still  more  amazed,  I  replied,  "  I  am  not,  perhaps,  a  fair 
judge  of  Miss  Delany's  powers,  as  I  heard  her  play  but 
once,  but  I  think  you  do." 

"  Oh  !  I  am  so  glad  you  think  so,"  said  Florence,  spring 
ing  from  her  seat,  "  for  then  I  can  give  music  lessons  too, 
and  make  something  for  papa  and  mamma,  if  he  should 
lose  that  money.  Do  you  not  think  I  may,  Aunt  Kitty  ?" 

"  Yes,  my  dear  Florence,  I  do  not  doubt  you  can,  if  it 
become  necessary,  which  I  hope  it  will  not — but  what  put 
such  an  idea  into  your  head  ?" 

"  I  have  had  a  great  many  ideas  in  my  head  about  ma 
king  money,  since  I  heard  papa  talking  of  this  business ; 
but  I  believe  what  made  me  think  of  this,  was  Lucy  Der- 
mot's  coming  here  last  week.  Lucy's  mother,  you  know, 
Aunt  Kitty,  is  very  poor,  and  I  remembered  hearing  Miss 
Delany  say  once,  that  Lucy  had  the  finest  voice  and  quick 
est  ear  for  music  of  any  child  she  had  ever  known,  and 
that  she  thought  it  a  great  pity  they  could  not  be  cultivated, 
for  then  she  might  support  both  her  mother  and  herself 
handsomely.  So  I  said  to  myself,  mine  have  been  culti 
vated,  and  if  they  are  not  so  good  as  Lucy's,  I  may  do 
something  far  papa  and  mamma  with  them." 

Mrs.  Arnott  came  in,  and  nothing  more  was  said  on  the 
subject,  but  I  now  understood  Florence's  devotion  to  her 
music,  and  the  pleasant  expression  which  her  countenance 
wore  when  she  was  practising.  It  was  her  generous  mo 
tive  which  gave  a  charm  to  what  would  otherwise  have 
been  very  tiresome. 

14 


158  FLORENCE  ARNOTT. 


CHAPTER    XIII. 

THE  THEEE  WISHES. 

"  RTTN  to  the  window,  mamma,  run  to  the  window,  and 
see  who  is  come,"  cried  Florence,  a  few  days  after,  burst 
ing  into  the  room  where  her  mother  and  I  were  sitting,  just 
before  dinner. 

It  was  not  necessary  to  run  to  the  window,  it  was  only 
necessary  to  look  into  Florence's  joyful  face  to  see  that  her 
father  had  come.  I  lifted  my  eyes  to  Mr.  Arnott's  face  as 
he  entered  :  there  was  no  cloud  on  his  brow,  no  expression 
but  that  of  grateful  joy  in  his  eyes,  and  I  said  to  myself, 
all  has  gone  prosperously  with  him.  It  was  even  so.  The 
lawyer,  on  his  return,  delivered  to  Mr.  Arnott  papers  which 
he  had  drawn  up  for  Mr.  Atwater,  and  which,  with  his 
will,  had  been  left  in  his  hands  for  safe-keeping.  These 
papers  fully  secured  Mr.  Arnott's  property.  He  had  lost 
nothing,  but  had  gained  from  past  anxiety  a  very  useful 
lesson — never  to  put  off  important  business,  even  for  a 
day. 

In  the  evening  we  gathered  around  the  fire,  with  grate 
ful  and  happy  hearts,  to  hear  and  to  tell  the  events  of  those 
weeks  of  separation.  Already,  however,  when  Florence 
was  not  present,  Mr.  Arnott  had  heard  from  his  wife  of  her 
constant  tenderness,  and  watchful  attention  to  her  comfort, 
and  from  me  of  her  generous  plans  for  aiding  them,  should 
the  ill  fortune  come  which  they  anticipated.  He  did  not 
praise  her  in  words,  but  she  could  not  meet  his  eye,  or  hear 
his  tones,  without  feeling  that  she  was  dearer  than  ever  to 
her  father's  heart.  Just  before  we  separated  for  the  night, 
he  drew  her  to  him,  and  seating  her  on  his  knee,  said, 
"  Florence,  did  you  ever  read  the  fairy  story  of  the  three 
wishes  ?" 

"Yes,  papa." 

"  Well,  I  will  be  your  good  fairy.  Make  three  wishes, 
and  they  shall  be  granted." 

Florence  laughed  gayly. 

"  Why,  papa !  fairies  are  always  women." 


FLORENCE    ARNOTT.  159 

"  Well,  I  will  be  a  magician  ;  they  are  men,  are  they 
not  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  Now  make  your  wishes." 

"  What  shall  I  wish  for,  mamma  ?" 

"Stop,"  said  Mr.  Arnott,  "they  must  be  your  own 
wishes ;  nobody  must  prompt  them,  or  the  spell  is  broken." 

"  And  if  I  make  a  wrong  wish,  may  I  not  take  it  back, 
ind  wish  over  again  ?" 

"  No — so  be  careful  what  you  say." 

Florence  became  grave,  and  was  silent  for  a  few  min 
utes  ;  then  looking  up  with  a  smile,  said,  "  I  have  two 
wishes,  but  I  cannot  think  of  a  third." 

"  Let  me  hear  the  two,  and  you  can  take  a  longer  time 
to  think  of  the  third." 

"  Well,  first,  I  wish  little  Jem  O'Donnel  could  be  sent 
to  school,  and  when  he  gets  big  enough,  could  be  taught  a 
trade — that  is  one  wish." 

"  That  is  one  wish  !  I  thought  that  was  two  wishes." 

"  Oh  no,  papa  !  only  one." 

"  Well,  let  it  pass  for  one.  It  shall  be  done,  that  is,  with 
his  parents'  consent,  which  you  must  get  Aunt  Kitty  to 
procure  for  you.  Now  for  the  second  wish." 

"  I  wish  little  Lucy  Dermot  could  be  taught  music,  so 
as  to  give  lessons,  and  support  her  mother  and  herself." 

"  You  extravagant  girl,"  said  Mr.  Arnott,  "  it  is  well  I 
limited  your  wishes  to  three,  or  I  should  be  a  ruined  man." 

"  Oh,  papa  !  fairies  and  magicians  never  find  any  fault 
with  our  wishes,  if  they  are  ever  so  extravagant." 

"  Well,  Lucy  Dermot  shall  be  taught  music,  if  she  be 
able  and  willing  to  learn.  Now  for  the  third  wish." 

"  Oh  !  I  must  have  till  to-morrow  to  think  of  that.  That 
is  my  last  wish,  and  it  must  be  something  very  good." 

"  To-morrow,  then,  I  shall  expect  to  hear  it ;  and  now 
you  may  go  and  dream  of  it.  Good-night." 

I  went  down  early  the  next  morning  to  put  some  books, 
which  I  had  finished  reading,  into  their  places  in  the  libra 
ry,  an  apartment  communicating  with  the  breakfast-parlor  by 
a  door,  now  standing  open.  While  I  was  there,  Mr.  Arnott 
entered  the  parlor,  and  immediately  after,  Florence  bound 
ed  in,  exclaiming,  "  Oh,  papa  !  I  have  found  out  my  third 
wish." 


160  FLORENCE    ARNOTT. 

"  Well,  my  daughter,  what  is  it  ?" 

"  Why,  you  know,  papa,  nurse  has  a  daughter,  and  she 
is  her  only  child,  just  as  I  am  your  only  child ;  and  she  is 
very  good,  too,  nurse  says." 

"  Just  as  you  are  very  good,  I  suppose." 

"  Oh  no,  papa,  I  did  not  mean  that ;  but  she  is  going  to 
be  married — at  least,  she  would  have  been  married  a  year 
ago,  nurse  says,  but  the  man  she  is  to  be  married  to  is 
working  hard  to  try  and  get  a  house  for  her  to  live  in  first — " 

"  And  how  did  you  hear  all  this,  Florence  ?  Did  nurse 
know  of  my  promise  to  you,  and  did  she  ask  you  to  speak 
of  this  ?" 

"  Oh  no,  papa  !  she  does  not  kncrw  any  thing  about  it. 
I  thought  when  I  had  such  a  good  chance,  I  ought  to  do 
something  for  nurse ;  so,  when  she  was  putting  me  to  bed 
last  night,  I  asked  her  what  she  wished  for  most  in  the 
world,  and  she  said  she  was  so  well  taken  care  of  that  she 
had  not  any  thing  to  wish  for ;  and  I  said,  '  Not  if  any 
body  was  to  promise  to  give  you  just  what  you  should  ask 
for,  nurse,  could  you  not  find  any  thing  to  wish  for  then  ?' 
and  so  nurse  told  me  about  her  daughter,  and  said  she  did 
wish  sometimes  she  had  a  home  for  her,  and  I  thought  my 
third  wish  should  be  for  a  house  for  her.  Just  a  small 
house,  you  know,  papa,  with  flowers  all  about  it,  and  a 
garden,  and  a  poultry  yard,  and  a  dairy,  and — " 

"  Stop,  Florence — here  are  half  a  dozen  wishes  at  once. 
I  will  tell  you  what  I  will  do.  I  will  have  a  small  but 
comfortable  house  built — " 

"  And  a  garden  to  it,  papa  ?" 

"  Yes,  a  garden  and  a  poultry  yard  ;  the  dairy  can  wait 
until  it  is  wanted,  and  the  flowers  they  can  plant  them 
selves.  This  house  you  shall  give  to  nurse,  and  she  can 
let  her  children  have  it  until  she  wants  to  occupy  it  her 
self.  It  is  only  right,  as  you  say,  that  something  should 
be  done  for  her." 

"  Oh,  thank  you — thank  you,  papa  !  That  will  be  my 
very  wish." 

"  And  now,  Florence,  your  three  wishes  have  been 
wished,  and  not  one  of  them  for  yourself.  Have  you  no 
selfish  desires,  my  child  ?" 

"  Oh  yes,  papa !"  said  Florence,  in  a  serious  tone,  "  a 
great  many." 


FLORENCE    ARNOTT.  161 

"  I  should  like  to  know  how  you  find  them,  Florence  ?" 

Mr.  Arnott  meant  to  express  by  this,  that  he  never  saw 
these  selfish  desires  manifested  by  Florence  ;  but  she  un 
derstood  him  literally  to  mean,  that  he  wished  to  know 
how  she  discovered  them,  and  she  answered  ;  "  Why,  you 
know,  papa,  Aunt  Kitty  made  a  little  prayer  for  me  once, 
when  I  was  very,  very  selfish,  and  I  thought  I  would  say 
that  prayer  every  night  till  I  had  no  more  selfishness  left  ; 
so  every  night  I  went  over  in  my  own  mind  what  had 
happened  in  the  day,  to  see  if  I  must  say  it,  and,  papa, 
there  has  never  been  a  single  night  that  I  have  not  had  to 
say  it,  and  I  am  afraid  it  always  will  be  so." 

"  It  will,  my  dear  child,  for  fthere  is  selfishness  in  our 
hearts  as  long  as  we  live ;  but  while  you  watch  over  your 
self,  and  pray  earnestly  to  God  against  it,  he  will  give 
you  power  always  to  act  generously — to  subdue  your  self 
ish  feelings." ' 

I  have  told  you  enough  of  Florence,  my  dear  young 
friends,  to  enable  you  to  answer  the  question — is  she  gen 
erous  ?  But  my  book  has  done  little  if  it  has  not  made 
you  ask  a  question  of  much  more  importance  to  each  one 
of  you — are  you  yourself  generous  ?  Before  you  answer, 
yes,  remember  that  the  truly  excellent  are  always  humble, 
and  that  Florence  never  felt  how  much  selfishness  was  in 
her  heart,  till  she  became  generous.  Should  your  con 
science  answer,  no,  imitate  Florence  in  her  simple,  earnest 
prayer,  and  honest  efforts  to  amend,  and  be  assured  that 
the  same  heavenly  Father  will  hear  and  help  you. 

14* 


THE  END. 


GRACE  AND  CLARA: 


BE  JUST  AS  WELL  AS  GENEROUS. 


GRACE   AND   CLARA, 


CHAPTER  I. 

AUNT   KITTY'S   GREETING. 

NEARLY  a  year  has  passed,  my  dear  young  friends,  since 
first  Aunt  Kitty  met  you  with  a  "  Merry  Christmas  or 
Happy  New-Year."  The  snow,  which  then  spread  a  veil 
over  all  things,  has  long  since  melted  away.  The  spring 
flowers  which  succeeded  it  have  withered.  The  summer 
and  autumn  fruits  have  been  gathered.  Again  winter  has 
stripped  even  the  leaves  from  the  trees,  and  we  awake  each 
morning  expecting  to  find  that  again  he  has  clothed  them 
in  robes  of  spotless  white.  And  now  that  the  season  for 
holidays  and  merriment  has  returned, — now  that  your 
friends  greet  you  not  only  with  smiling  faces  and  pleasant 
words,  but  with  presents,  as  marks  of  their  affection  and 
approbation,  Aunt  Kitty,  too,  comes  with  her  token  of  re 
membrance. 

Before  she  presents  it,  will  you  permit  her  to  ask  how  you 
have  received  those  which  she  has  already  sent  you.  Have 
you  learned  from  "  Blind  Alice"  and  her  young  friend 
Harriet,  that  to  do  right  is  the  only  way  to  be  happy,  and 
from  "  Jessie  Graham,"  that  it  is  true  wisdom  to  speak  the 
simple  truth  always,  and  from  "Florence  Arnott,"  that 
selfishness  is  a  great  evil,  and  will,  if  you  indulge  it,  bring 
great  sufferings  on  yourselves  and  others  ?  If  you  have 
learned  these  lessons  and  practise  them,  then  am  I  sure 
that  your  Christmas  will  be  merry  and  your  New- Year 
happy, — that  the  good-humored  tones  and  ringing  laughter 
of  your  young  companions  will  never  be  changed  into 
wrangling  and  fretful  cries,  or  the  smiles  of  your  older 
friends  into  grave  and  disapproving  looks.  That  I  think 


166  GRACE  AND  CLARA. 

of  you,  this  little  book  will  prove,  and  though  I  may  not 
see  you,  I  shall  probably  hear  of  your  improvement  and 
enjoyment,  and  my  holidays  will  be  the  pleasanter  for 
them. 

These  holidays  I  shall  pass  in  the  country  at  the  house 
of  my  friend  Mrs.  Wilmot,  to  whom  I  have  already  made 
a  very  long  visit.  There  are  residing  here  six  young  girls, 
the  eldest  little  over  twelve,  and  the  youngest  under  ten 
years  of  age.  Already  they  have  learned  to  regard  a  walk 
with  Aunt  Kitty,  as  a  reward  for  a  well-recited  lesson,  and 
to  cluster  around  her  by  the  evening  fire,  with  wishful  eyes 
and  earnest  voices  asking  for  one  story  more.  At  any  hint 
of  my  going  home,  their  remonstrances  and  entreaties  are 
so  vehement,  that,  I  think,  when  it  becomes  absolutely  ne 
cessary  to  leave  them,  I  shall  have  to  steal  away. 

I  am  about  to  introduce  these  little  girls  to  you  by  name, 
to  tell  you  how  their  time  is  generally  employed,  how  their 
holidays  are  passed,  and  thus  to  make  you  quite  well  ac 
quainted  with  them. 


CHAPTER   II. 

HAZEL   GROVE. 

MRS.  WILMOT  was  left  a  widow  when  her  two  daugh 
ters,  Grace  and  Lucy,  were  very  young — so  young  that 
Lucy,  who  is  now  ten  years  old,  does  not  remember  her 
father  at  all,  and  Grace,  who  is  twelve,  has  only  a  very 
faint  recollection  of  a  gentleman,  who,  when  he  was  lying 
on  a  couch  in  the  parlor,  used  to  have  her  brought  to  him, 
and  kiss  her,  and  give  her  some  of  the  candies  which  he 
always  seemed  to  have  near  him.  Mrs.  Wilmot  found 
herself  not  very  rich  on  the  death  of  her  husband,  and  as 
she  was  a  very  highly  educated  and  accomplished  woman, 
she  was  advised  to  keep  a  school  for  young  ladies.  She 
did  not  remove  into  a  city  to  do  this,  for  her  own  pleasant 
house  is  near  enough  to  a  large  town  to  admit  of  her  having 
day  scholars  from  it ;  and  she  took  no  boarders,  but  four 
girls,  the  children  of  friends  who  had  known  her  long,  and 


GRACE    AND    CLARA.  167 

who  were  glad  to  have  their  daughters  under  her  care,  on 
any  terms.  These  four  girls  are  about  the  age  of  her  own 
children,  and  have  been  educated  with  them  as  sisters. 
Indeed,  as  they  call  her  "  Mamma  Wilmot,"  but  for  their 
being  so  much  of  the  same  age,  a  stranger  might  suppose 
them  all  her  own  children.  Their  names  are  Clara  De- 
vaux,  Martha  Williams,  and  Kate  and  Emma  Ormesby. 
These  two  last-named  girls  are  twin  sisters,  and  so  much 
alike  that  it  was  formerly  frequent  sport  with  them  to  per- 
plex  their  young  companions  by  answering  to  each  other's 
names.  This  they  can  no  longer  do,  as  Kate  has  grown  tall 
and  thin,  while  Emma  is  still  a  fat,  chubby  little  girl. 
Mrs.  Wilmot,  about  two  years  ago,  had  some  property  left 
her,  which  would  have  supported  herself  and  her  daugh 
ters  very  comfortably  without  the  profits  of  her  school,  but 
she  had  become  so  much  interested  in  her  young  boarders, 
that  she  was  not  willing  to  part  with  them.  She  gave  up, 
however,  all  her  day  scholars,  and  then  wrote  to  me  re 
questing  that  I  would  visit  her,  as  she  would  now,  she  said, 
have  only  her  six  little  girls  to  teach,  and  would  therefore 
have  leisure  enough  to  admit  of  her  enjoying  a  friend's  so 
ciety.  As  soon  as  possible  after  I  received  this  letter,  I 
went  to  Hazel  Grove,  the  name  of  Mrs.  Wilmot's  place, 
taking  Harriet  with  me. 

We  arrived  at  noon  of  a  bright  day  in  October.  We 
had  already  begun  to  enjoy  the  glow  of  a  fire  in  the  chill 
mornings  and  evenings,  but,  at  that  hour,  the  sun  was  so 
warm  that  it  might  almost  have  cheated  us,  as  well  as  the 
little  birds  and  insects,  into  believing  that  summer  was  not 
quite  gone. 

Hazel  Grove  is  a  very  pretty  place.  It  fronts  a  fine, 
bold  river,  to  whose  very  edge  the  lawn,  on  which  the 
house  stands,  slopes  gently  down.  On  the  opposite  side  of 
the  river,  the  banks  are  steep  and  thickly  wooded.  On  the 
left  of  the  house,  as  we  approached,  lay  a  large  orchard, 
which  still  looked  inviting,  with  its  yellow  pears  and  its  red 
or  speckled  apples.  On  the  right,  was  a  fine  old  wood  of 
oak  and  maple  and  beach  trees,  intermingled  with  the 
smaller  hazels,  from  which  the  place  takes  its  name.  Have 
you  ever,  in  Autumn,  when  the  nights  became  cold,  watched 
the  trees,  as  their  green  first  grew  deeper  and  more  vivid, 
and  then  was  changed  from  day  to  day  into  every  varying 


168  GRACE  AND  CLARA. 


shade  of  color,  from  russet  brown  to  pale  yellow — from 
deep  rich  crimson,  to  bright  scarlet  and  flaunting  orange  ? 
If  you  have,  you  may  know  how  gayly  this  wood  was  look 
ing  when  first  we  saw  it. 

But  pleasant  as  all  this  was,  there  was  something  in  the 
old  stone  cottage,  with  its  yard  bordered  with  flowers  and 
shaded  with  large  black-walnut  trees,  which  pleased  me 
yet  better ;  and  best  of  all  was  the  view  which  I  caught  of 
the  parlor  through  the  open  windows.  There  sat  Mrs. 
Wilmot  in  a  rocking-chair,  with  six  little  girls  around  her, 
to  whom  she  was  reading.  These  girls  were  all  busily  at 
work,  except  one  bright-eyed,  curly-headed  little  thing, 
seated  on  a  low  stool  at  Mrs.  Wilmot's  feet,  whom  I  after 
wards  found  to  be  her  youngest  daughter,  Lucy.  She,  too, 
had  some  work  in  her  hand,  but  she  was  so  much  inter 
ested  in  what  she  was  hearing,  that  her  needle  stood  still, 
while  she  looked  up  into  her  mother's  eyes,  as  if  she  would 
read  the  story  in  them.  I  had  only  a  single  minute  to  see 
all  this,  for  the  noise  of  letting  down  the  carriage  steps 
caused  Mrs.  Wilmot  to  look  out,  and  in  an  instant  the  book 
was  laid  aside,  the  work  thrown  down,  and  she  hastened  to 
meet  us,  followed  by  her  children. 

The  rest  of  this  day  was  a  holiday  to  the  children,  and 
while  Mrs.  Wilmot  and  I  sat  talking  over  old  friends  and 
old  times,  they  led  Harriet  to  their  gardens  and  their  baby- 
houses,  their  swing,  and  the  playground  where  they  were 
accustomed  to  trundle  their  hoops  and  jump  the  rope, — 
showed  her  the  calf,  Martha's  pet  lamb,  Kate's  and  Emma's 
English  rabbits,  Clara's  dove,  Lucy's  kitten,  and  Grace's 
puppy,  which  were  each  the  most  beautiful  of  their  kind 
that  had  ever  been  seen.  The  next  morning  I  was  intro 
duced  to  all  these  beauties,  and  quite  won  the  hearts  of 
their  owners  by  my  evident  admiration  of  them.  When 
my  visits  were  over,  Mrs.  Wilmot  called  her  little  girls  to 
their  lessons,  in  which  Harriet,  at  her  own  request,  joined 
them.  Mrs.  Wilmot  had  a  good  library,  and  while  she 
and  the  girls  were  engaged  with  their  studies  in  the  morn 
ing,  I  was  generally  there,  reading  or  writing.  At  dinner 
we  met  again,  and  the  afternoon  was  passed  together  in 
some  entertaining  and  pleasant  way  at  home,  or  in  driving, 
walking,  or  visiting  some  of  the  agreeable  people  with  whom 
Mrs.  Wilmot  was  acquainted  in  the  town. 


GRACE    AND    CLARA.  169 


CHAPTER   III. 

'  \.f  IS.  THE    FRIENDS. 

AMONGST  the  children  at  Hazel  Grove,  there  were,  as 
you  may  suppose,  varieties  of  disposition  and  character, 
and  though  they  seemed  all  to  feel  kindly  and  affectionately 
to  each  other,  each  of  them  had  some  chosen  companion, 
to  whom  their  plans  were  confided,  and  with  whom  all  their 
pleasures  were  shared.  Kate  and  Emma,  the  twins,  were 
almost  inseparable  ;  Lucy  Wilmot  and  Martha  Williams 
walked  together,  assisted  each  other  in  their  gardens,  and 
nursed  each  other's  pets  ;  while  Clara  Devaux  and  Grace 
Wilmot  read  from  the  same  book,  pursued  the  same  studies, 
and  sought  the  same  amusements.  Yet  there  could  scarce 
have  been  two  persons  less  alike  than  Clara  Devaux  and 
Grace  Wilmot.  Clara  was  gay  and  spirited,  generous  and 
thoughtless.  A  quick  temper  often  made  her  say  unkind 
words,  which  an  affectionate  heart  made  her  feel,  in  a  short 
time,  far  more  painfully  than  the  person  to  whom  they 
were  addressed.  Grace  was,  on  the  contrary,  of  a  grave, 
serious  nature,  and  seemed  always  to  take  time  to  think 
before  she  acted.  She,  too,  possessed  a  very  affectionate 
heart,  and  the  least  appearance  of  coldness  or  anger  from 
one  she  loved,  would  distress  her  much,  but  she  had  scarcely 
ever  been  known  to  speak  or  even  to  look  angrily.  In  one 
thing,  however,  these  girls  were  alike, — they  were  both 
remarkable  for  their  truth.  I  do  not  mean  only  that  they 
would  not  tell  a  story,  for  this  I  hope  few  little  girls  would 
do,  but  they  would  not  in  any  way  deceive  another,  and  if 
they  had  done  wrong,  they  did  not  wait  to  be  questioned, 
but  would  frankly  tell  of  themselves.  Mrs.  Wilmot,  in 
speaking  to  me  of  their  attachment,  said  she  was  pleased 
at  it,  for  she  thought  they  had  been  of  use  to  each  other ; 
that  Clara  had  sometimes  stimulated  Grace  to  do  right 
things  which,  without  her  persuasions,  she  would  have  been 
too  timid  to  attempt,  and  that  Grace  had  often  prevented 
Clara  from  doing  wrong  things  into  which  her  heedlessness 
would  have  led  her  but  for  her  friend's  prudent  advice. 

15 


170  GRACE    AND    CLARA. 

Not  far  from  Mrs.  Wilmot's  lived  a  man  who  was  feeble 
in  health  and  somewhat  indolent  in  his  habits.  He  had 
three  little  daughters,  the  eldest  of  whom  was  little  more 
than  four  years  old  when  their  mother  died.  She  was  an 
active,  industrious  woman,  and  had  always  taken  good  care 
of  them,  but  as  their  father  was  far  from  rich,  they  fared 
hardly  after  her  death,  and  were  often  sadly  neglected. 
They  could  not  go  to  any  school  except  Sunday-school, 
because  their  father  could  not  afford  to  pay  any  thing  for 
their  education,  and  at  Sunday-school  they  were  seldom 
seen,  because  there  was  no  one  to  take  care  that  their 
clothes  were  mended  and  washed  in  time. 

"  Poor  children,"  said  Grace  one  day,  when  she  and 
Clara  had  passed  them  in  walking,  "  how  sorry  I  am  for 
them !  They  have  no  kind  mother  to  take  care  of  them 
and  teach  them  as  I  have." 

"  No,  but  they  might  go  to  Sunday-school,  if  they  would," 
said  Clara  ;  "  and  they  could  learn  a  great  deal  there." 

"  Yes,  Clara,  but  are  you  sure  that  we  should  ever  have 
gone  to  Sunday-school,  if  we  had  had  no  one  to  see  that 
we  were  ready,  and  send  us  there  ?" 

"No,"  said  Clara,  "I  do  not  think  we  should." 

The  girls  walked  silently  on  for  a  few  minutes,  when 
Clara  said,  "  Grace,  suppose  we  teach  these  poor  little  chil 
dren." 

"  We  teach  them,  Clara — what  an  idea !"  exclaimed 
Grace. 

"  And  why  not  ?  I  am  sure  we  can  teach  them  to  read 
and  to  say  hymns  and  verses  from  the  Bible,  and  we  shall 
be  learning  something  more  and  more  every  day  to  teach 
them,  as  they  grow  older.  Come,  let  us  turn  back  and  ask 
them  if  they  will  come  to  school  to  us." 

Clara  was  already  retracing  her  steps,  but  Grace  put  her 
hand  on  her  arm  and  stopped  her.  "  Stay,  Clara, — it  seems 
very  good,  and  I  am  sure  I  should  like  to  teach  them  if  I 
can, — but  let  us  ask  mamma  about  it  first,  and  if  she  think 
it  right,  she  will  show  us  the  best  way  to  do  it." 

Clara  readily  agreed  to  this  proposal.  When  they  re 
turned  home,  Mrs.  Wilmot  was  consulted.  She  highly 
approved  the  plan,  and  promised  to  aid  them  in  its  execu 
tion,  provided  the  time  which  they  gave  to  their  little  pupils 
was  taken,  not  from  their  studies  or  work,  but  from  their 


GRACE    AND    CLARA.  171 

amusements.  For  many  months  before  my  visit,  Clara  and 
Grace  had  commenced  their  school,  devoting  one  hour  each 
day  to  these  motherless  children.  There  was  something  very 
touching  to  me  in  seeing  these  young  teachers'  patient  and 
persevering  efforts  to  instruct  their  charge.  Especially  did  it 
please  me  to  see  the  gay,  pleasure-loving  Clara,  lay  aside  her 
bonnet,  when  ready  for  a  walk  or  ride,  put  up  her  battledoor, 
or  jump  from  the  just-entered  swing,  when  she  saw  the  little 
girls  approaching.  I  said  something  of  this  kind  one  day 
to  Mrs.  Wilmot,  and  Clara,  who  was  nearer  than  I  thought, 
overheard  me.  She  colored,  looked  quickly  at  me,  as  if 
she  would  speak,  and  then,  her  courage  failing,  looked 
down  again. 

"  What  would  you  say,  Clara  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Wilmot. 

"  That  if  it  had  not  been  for  Grace,  ma'am,  I  should  have 
often  put  off  teaching  them,  and  maybe,  should  have  given 
it  up  altogether  before  this." 

"  And  how  has  Grace  prevented  you,  my  dear  ?" 

"  Why,  the  first  time  I  wanted  to  put  off  the  lesson  was 
once  that  Mr.  Gilbert  called  to  give  me  a  drive  in  his  new 
carriage,  just  as  the  children  came.  But  when  I  said  '  let 
us  put  them  off,'  Grace  looked  very  sorry,  and  said,  I  must 
remember  how  much  trouble  we  had  had  in  getting  them  to 
come  to  us ;  and  now,  if  we  put  them  off  for  a  drive,  they 
would  think  we  did  not  care  much  for  the  lessons,  and 
would  perhaps  not  come  again.  Grace  seemed  so  serious 
and  earnest,  that  I  was  ashamed  of  having  even  thought  of 
putting  them  off;  and  so  I  have  never  said  anything  about 
it  since,  though  I  have  been  very  tired  sometimes." 

Grace  had  entered  while  Clara  was  speaking,  and  now 
said,  "  Ah,  Clara  !  but  we  would  never  have  begun  to 
teach  them  if  it  had  not  been  for  you." 

My  young  readers  may  understand  from  this  sketch 
what  Mrs.  Wilmot  meant  by  saying  that  Clara  stimulated 
Grace  to  do  right  things,  and  Grace  prevented  Clara  from 
doing  wrong  ones. 


172  GRACE    AND    CLARA. 


CHAPTER    IV. 

THE    YOUNG   TEACHER. 

THE  first  Saturday  after  my  arrival  at  Hazel  Grove,  I 
found,  after  breakfast,  that  Clara,  instead  of  getting  her 
books,  as  usual,  produced  some  colored  silks  and  a  frame 
for  embroidery,  in  which  was  an  apron  with  a  border  of 
beautifully  shaded  white,  pink,  and  crimson  rose-buds,  just 
commenced.  At  the  same  time,  Grace  brought  out  her  paints- 
and  brushes  and  an  unfinished  flower-piece,  which  showed 
both  great  taste  in  its  design  and  great  care  in  its  execution. 
These  things  were  laid  on  the  table,  and  then  these  two  girls 
seemed  to  have  nothing  to  do  but  to  watch  for  the  arrival  of 
some  one  whom  they  evidently  expected  with  impatience. 
At  length  Clara  cried  out,  "  I  see  her,  Grace — there  she  is." 

I  looked  and  saw,  still  at  a  distance  from  the  house, 
the  figure  of  a  girl  apparently  not  older  than  those  who 
were  so  anxiously  expecting  her.  She  carried  a  portfolio 
under  her  arm,  and  walked  with  a  quick,  buoyant  step, 
which  showed  that  she  was  both  well  and  cheerful. 

"  Who  is  that  ?"  said  I  to  Grace. 

"Cecille  L'Estrange,  ma'am,"  she  replied. 

"  And  is  she  coming  to  take  lessons  with  you  ?" 

"  No,  ma'am,"  she  said,  smiling,  "  she  is  coming  to 
teach  us." 

"  To  teach  you  !"  I  exclaimed,  with  surprise,  "  why, 
she  is  a  child,  like  yourselves.  What  can  she  teach  you  ?" 

"  Oh  !  a  great  deal  more  than  we  have  time  to  learn," 
said  Clara,  while  Grace  added, 

"  She  is  two  years  older  than  Clara  and  I, — she  is  thir 
teen." 

I  had  no  time  to  ask  farther  questions,  for  Cecille  was  at 
the  door.  She  entered  smiling,  and  said,  "  Ah  !  you  wait 
for  me — but  I  am  punctual,  it  is  just  the  time,"  pointing  to 
a  clock  on  the  mantelpiece,  which  said  exactly  nine  o'clock. 
As  she  spoke,  her  eye  turning  towards  that  part  of  the 
room  where  I  was  sitting,  she  colored,  and  looked  down. 


GRACE    AND    CLARA.  173 

Grace,  who  always  seemed  thoughtful  of  the  comfort  of 
others,  saw  this  little  embarrassment,  and  introduced  her  to 
me. 

Either  this  introduction,  or  something  in  my  manner  to 
her,  set  her  quite  at  her  ease  ;  and  when  I  asked  if  I 
should  be  in  their  way,  it  was  with  a  very  sweet,  engaging 
smile  that  she  replied,  "  Oh  no,  indeed  !  I  should  very 
much  like  to  have  you  stay,  if  you  please." 

Before  I  say  any  thing  more  of  Cecille  L'Estrange,  it 
will,  perhaps,  be  best  to  tell  my  young  readers,  that  she 
was  a  French  girl,  and  therefore,  .though  she  understood 
English  perfectly  well,  and  spoke  it  better  than  most  for 
eigners  do,  she  sometimes  expressed  herself  in  a  different 
manner  from  what  an  English  person  or  an  American 
would  have  done  :  and  when  she  was  very  much  excited 
from  any  cause,  either  pleasant  or  painful,  she  would  bring 
in  a  French  word  here  and  there,  without  seeming  to  no 
tice,  or  even  to  know  it  herself.  These  words,  however,  I 
will  always  translate  into  English  for  you. 

I  had  nothing  to  do  for  some  time  but  to  watch  my  com 
panions  as  they  sat  busily  engaged,  and  their  silence  only 
broken  now  and  then  by  a  direction  from  their  young  in 
structress.  Seldom  have  I  seen  any  one  who  interested  me 
more  than  this  young  instructress.  Now  that  I  saw  her 
more  nearly,  I  still  thought  that  she  did  not  look  older  than 
Clara  or  Grace ;  indeed,  she  was  smaller  than  either  of 
them.  Her  features,  too,  were  small ;  and  though,  when 
quite  still,  there  was  an  earnest,  grave  expression  in  her 
face,  when  she  spoke  or  smiled,  it  was  lighted  up  with  such 
animation  and  gayety  that  she  seemed  like  a  playful  child. 
I  watched  her  very  earnestly,  for  there  was  something 
about  her  which  made  me  think,  that  young  as  she  was, 
and  cheerful  as  she  now  appeared,  she  had  felt  sorrow  and 
trial.  At  one  time,  in  moving  some  things  which  stood  on 
the  table  out  of  Clara's  way,  she  took  up  a  small  bronze 
figure  of  Napoleon  Bonaparte.  She  did  not  put  this  down 
immediately,  but  continued  to  hold  it  and  look  at  it,  till  her 
countenance  grew  very  sad,  and  she  sighed  heavily.  Just 
then,  Grace,  having  put  the  finishing  touch  to  a  splendid 
rose,  placed  the  piece  before  her  eyes  without  speaking. 
In  an  instant  all  sadness  was  gone  from  her  face,  and, 
clapping  her  hands  together,  she  exclaimed,  in  French, 
15* 


174  GRACE    AND    CLARA. 

"  What  a  beautiful  flower !"  then,  laughing  at  her  own 
forgetfulness,  added,  in  English,  "  It  is  beautiful !  is  it  not, 
madam  ?"  showing  it  to  me  as  she  spoke. 

It  was  beautiful,  and  I  praised  it  as  it  deserved. 

A  few  minutes  after  this,  Cecille,  glancing  at  the  clock, 
started  up,  exclaiming,  "  I  must  go,  it  is  after  eleven  !" 

"Wait  five  minutes,"  said  Clara,  "and  just  show  me 
how  to  put  in  that  last  shade,  and  I  will  soon  finish  this 
corner."  . 

Cecille  looked  distressed,  turned  her  eyes  from  the  work 
to  the  clock,  took  the  needle  from  Clara's  fingers,  and  then 
dropping  it,  said,  "  I  will  come  back  this  afternoon,  and 
show  you ;  but  you  must  let  me  go  now.  I  told  my  grand 
mamma  that  I  would  come  back  to  her  at  half-past  eleven. 
I  shall  just  have  the  time  now  to  get  home  before  that ;  and 
if  I  stay  longer  she  will  be  frightened  for  me." 

She  took  up  her  portfolio,  courtesied  to  me,  bade  the  girls 
good-by,  again  assuring  Clara  that  she  would  come  back, 
and  in  less  than  two  minutes  was  out  of  sight. 

"  I  am  sorry,"  said  Clara,  as  she  was  putting  up  her 
work,  "that  I  asked  her  to  show  me  any  more  to-day,  for 
now  she  will  take  that  long,  tiresome  walk  back  again." 

"  Besides,  Clara,"  said  Grace,  "  you  know  she  is  always 
at  work  when  she  is  at  home,  and  she  will  lose  so  much 
time  coming  twice  to-day." 

"  Well,  I  am  sure,  Grace,"  said  Clara,  reddening  at 
what  seemed  to  her  a  reproach,  "  I  did  not  ask  her  to  come 
again,  and  I  can  do  no  more  than  be  sorry  for  it  now." 

"  Yes,  we  can  do  something  more,"  said  Grace,  "  we 
can  walk  over  after  dinner  and  tell  her  not  to  come." 

"  So  we  can  and  so  we  will,"  said  Clara,  relieved  at 
once  by  seeing  that  she  could  do  something  to  remedy  the 
evil. 


* 


GRACE    AND    CLARA.  175 


CHAPTER   V. 

CECILLE. 

WHEN  Mrs.  Wilmot  joined  us  I  told  her  how  much  I 
had  been  interested  by  the  young '  Cecille,  and  begged  her 
to  tell  me  all  she  knew  of  her. 

"  That  I  will  readily  do,"  Mrs.  Wilmot  replied,  "  but 
the  all  is  not  much.  She  has  been  but  a  short  time  near 
us,  for  it  was  only  late  in  the  last  winter,  when  the  roads 
were  full  of  snow  and  ice,  that  a  stage  full  of  passengers 
from  B.  was  upset,  not  far  from  us.  None  were  hurt  but 
an  old  lady,  who  had  her  arm  broken.  It  was  quite  im-  - 
possible  for  her  to  continue  her  journey,  yet  she  seemed,  I 
was  afterwards  told,  much  distressed  at  being  compelled  to 
remain.  The  pain  occasioned  by  her  removal  from  the 
road  to  a  neighboring  house  caused  her  to  faint ;  and  before 
she  recovered  her  consciousness  the  surgeon  had  been 
called,  and  every  thing  was  in  readiness  for  setting  the  arm. 
A  little  girl,  who  had  been  travelling  with  her,  stood  weep 
ing  beside  her,  addressing  her  in  French  in  the  most  plain 
tive  and  tender  tones,  and  by  the  endearing  title  of  '  mamma.' 
As  the  poor  lady  revived  she  spoke  to  this  child  in  the 
most  rapid  and  energetic  manner,  while  she  repulsed  the 
proffered  assistance  of  the  surgeon.  She  spoke  in  French, 
which  no  one  present  understood,  but  it  was  evident  from  her 
manner  that  she  was  insisting  on  something  which  the  poor 
child  was  vehemently,  yet  respectflluy  and  tenderly  oppo 
sing.  At  length  the  surgeon  said, '  Your  mamma,  is  wrong, 
my  dear,  to  leave  her  arm  so  long  unattended  to.  It  is  al 
ready  swelling,  and  every  minute's  delay  will  make  the 
operation  more  painful.'  As  he  ceased  speaking  the  old 
lady  turned  to  the  child  and  said  something  with  great  en 
ergy.  The  little  girl  now,  in  a  very  hesitating  and  embar 
rassed  manner,  explained  that  the  lady  whom,  when  speak 
ing  in  English,  she  called  grandmamma,  did  not  want  any 
thing  done  to  her  arm.  '  She  will  die  then,'  said  the  blunt 
but  honest  and  kind-hearted  Dr.  Willis.  The  little  girl 
wrung  her  hands  in  agony,  and  a  groan  for  the  first  time 


176  GRACE    AND    CLARA. 

burst  from  the  lips  of  the  old  lady,  showing  that  though  she 
either  could  not  or  would  not  speak  English,  she  understood  it 
well.  A  sentence  addressed  to  her  by  the  child  in  the  most 
imploring  tone  caused  the  tears  to  spring  to  her  eyes.  As 
Cecille, — for  she  was  the  child, — spoke  to  her  grandmother, 
she  had  drawn  out  a  small  embroidered  purse.  This  ac 
tion  revealed  to  Dr.  Willis  the  secret  of  the  old  lady's  re 
luctance  to  have  any  thing  done  to  her  arm.  She  was 
afraid  to  incur  the  expense  of  a  surgical  operation.  The 
bluntest  people  become  gentle  when  their  kindly  feelings 
are  excited,  and  I  have  no  doubt  it  was  with  great  tender 
ness  that  Dr.  Willis  addressed  himself  to  Madame  L'Es- 
trange  in  his  endeavors  to  induce  her  to  accept  of  assistance 
which,  though  necessary  to  her  life,  she  would  have  reject 
ed  from  the  fear  that  she  could  not  pay  for  it.  How  he 
managed  it  I  know  not ;  but  he  did  at  length  win  her  con 
sent,  to  the  almost  frantic  joy  of  Cecille. 

"  A  fractured  limb  is,  you  know,  a  very  serious  thing 
with  an  old  person,  and  it  was  many  weeks  before  Madame 
L'Estrange  recovered  from  the  fever  occasioned  by  hers. 
Dr.  Willis  saw  that  she  was  often  painfully  anxious  on 
some  subject,  and  remembering  the  little  purse,  he  was 
not  long  at  a  loss  to  conjecture  the  cause.  Yet  it  was  a 
subject  on  which  he  knew  not  how  to  speak.  It  was  no 
easy  matter,  you  know,  to  say  to  a  lady,  '  I  see  that  you 
are  very  poor,  and  I  would  like  to  help  you.' 

"  One  morning  the  doctor  found  Cecille  weeping  bitterly. 
With  some  soothing  and  some  questioning  he  gained  her 
confidence,  and  found  that  the  week's  board  paid  that 
morning  had  nearly  emptied  the  little  purse — that  her 
grandmother  felt  that  they  could  not  continue  to  live  on  the 
poor  widow,  to  whose  house  she  had  been  carried,  and 
where  they  had  since  remained,  without  the  means  of  pay 
ing  her, — yet  that  they  knew  not  where  or  how  to  go. 
'  And  what  did  you  mean  to  do  if  you  had  not  been  stopped 
here  ?  Your  money  would  not  have  supported  you  any 
longer  in  another  place,'  said  Dr.  Willis.  '  Oh  sir !  if  we 
could  only  have  got  to  some  large  city,  grandmamma  says 
I  could  soon  have  made  money  enough  for  her  and  myself 
too.'  '  You  make  money  !'  repeated  the  doctor  with  sur 
prise,  looking  at  the  delicate  figure  and  soft  white  hands  of 
the  child.  'What  could  you  do?'  'I  can  do  a  great 


GRACE  AND  CLARA.  177 

many  things.  I  can  embroider  on  muslin  and  silk — I  can 
make  pretty  fancy  boxes — I  can  paint — and  grandmamma 
thinks,  with  some  practice,  I  could  take  miniatures.'  The 
doctor  listened  to  this  list  of  Cecille's  accomplishments  and 
shook  his  head  dejectedly.  Had  Cecille  said  she  could 
scrub  and  she  could  wash,  he  could  have  seen  how  money 
could  be  made  by  her,  but  these  fine  lady  works  he  had 
been  accustomed  to  think  only  so  many  ways  of  wasting 
time.  Fortunately  for  our  little  Cecille,  all  persons  did  not 
consider  them  so  unprofitable.  The  doctor  called  at  our 
house  after  visiting  Madame  L'Estrange,  and  with  his  own 
mind  full  of  Cecille's  sorrows,  he  repeated  to  me,  in  the 
presence  of  my  children,  what  he  had  just  heard.  Clara 
scarcely  allowed  him  to  finish  before  she  expressed  a  deter 
mination  to  have  a  muslin  cape  and  a  silk  apron  embroider 
ed,  a  fancy  box  made,  a  picture  painted,  and  a  miniature 
either  of  Grace  or  herself  taken.  I  begged,  however,  that 
before  giving  her  orders  she  would  calculate  her  means  of 
paying  for  them.  These  means  amounted  to  five  dollars  a 
month,  which  her  father  had  permitted  her  to  spend  as  she 
pleased  from  the  day  she  became  ten  years  old.  Clara 
soon  found  that  it  would  be  long  before  this  would  remu 
nerate  Cecille  for  half  the  employment  she  was  arranging 
for  her.  She  looked  at  me  in  despair,  and  seemed  half 
provoked  when  I  smiled  at  her  perplexity.  '  Then  I  can 
not  help  her,'  she  exclaimed  sorrowfully.  '  Stay,  stay,  my 
dear,'  said  I,  '  do  not  be  so  hasty  in  your  conclusions.  You 
may  help  her  very  much,  though  you  cannot  do  every 
thing  for  her.  How  would  you  like  to  take  lessons  of 
Cecille,  and  learn  to  do  these  things  for  yourself  instead  of 
having  them  done  for  you?'  'Oh!  I  should  like  it  above 
all  things,  but  will  papa  let  me,  do  you  think  ?'  '  I  have 
no  doubt  that  your  papa  will  not  only  let  you,  but  be  very 
much  pleased  if  you  choose  to  devote  a  part  of  your  pocket- 
money  to  your  own  improvement.  Your  allowance  of  five 
dollars  a  month  will  pay  Cecille  a  fair  price  for  so  much 
of  her  time  as  will  enable  her  to  teach  you  some  one  of 
her  accomplishments,  and  will  leave  you  something  for 
other  pleasures  too.'  Clara  was  delighted  with  my  pro 
posal.  I  permitted  Grace  to  join  her  in  her  lessons,  and 
for  ten  dollars  a  quarter  from  each  of  them,  Cecille  spends 
two  hours  in  their  instruction  on  every  Wednesday  and 


178  GRACE    AND    CLARA. 

Saturday  morning.  But  this  is  not  all  she  does.  She 
works  very  industriously  at  home,  and  when  her  work  is 
completed  she  brings  the  article  to  me,  and  I  forward  it  to 
a  friend  of  mine  in  the  city,  who  has  hitherto  been  able  to 
dispose  of  whatever  she  has  done  to  great  advantage.  In 
this  way  this  little  girl  has  for  some  months  supported  not 
only  herself  but  her  feeble  and  aged  grandmother." 

"  Poor  things,"  said  I,  "  if  this  is  all  their  support,  I  fear 
they  must  often  want." 

"  Indeed,  I  think  you  are  mistaken.  Their  clothing  is 
always  neat,  and  they  appear  to  live  comfortably." 

"  Then,"  said  I,  "  they  must  have  some  assistance  from 
others ;  for  according  to  your  own  account,  the  sum  which 
Cecil! e  receives  from  her  pupils  would  amount  in  a  year 
to  only  eighty  dollars.  She  must  gain  as  much  more  from 
other  work  tabe  able  to  pay  even  the  most  moderate  board  for 
two  persons ;  and  then  what  becomes  of  their  other  expen 
ses  ?" 

"  Ah  !  our  Cecille,  or  rather  her  grandmother,  is  a  bet 
ter  manager  than  you  would  be  of  her  little  funds,"  said 
Mrs.  Wilmot,  smiling.  "  They  do  not  board,  but  hire  from 
the  widow  Daly  two  rooms  in  her  cottage.  For  these 
they  pay  only  half  of  what  Cecille  receives  from  Clara  and 
Grace.  They  keep  no  servant,  but  for  a  trifle  obtain  each 
day,  from  one  of  Mrs.  Daly's  daughters,  an  hour's  assist 
ance  in  putting  every  thing  around  them  into  neat  order. 
How  they  live,  I  know  not ;  but  I  am  sure  Cecille  could 
not  be  so  cheerful  as  she  is,  if  her  grandmother  suffered 
any  serious  want.  Of  one  thing  I  am  sure — they  do  not 
run  in  debt  for  any  thing  ;  for  Cecille,  with  many  blushes 
and  great  timidity,  begged  her  young  pupils  here  to  pay 
her  by  the  month,  as  her  grandmother  had  engaged  to  pay 
her  rent  in  that  way,  and  would  be  very  much  distressed  if 
she  were  obliged  to  be  in  debt,  even  for  a  single  day." 


GRACE    AND    CLARA.  179 


CHAPTER    VI. 

THE    VISIT. 

IF  my  readers  have  been  only  half  as  much  interested  in 
Mrs.  Wilmot's  account  of  Cecille  as  I  was,  they  will  not 
have  thought  it  too  long.  Before  it  was  concluded,  I  had 
determined  to  become  better  acquainted  with  Cecille  L'Es- 
trange  ;  and  when,  immediately  after  an  early,  one  o'clock 
dinner,  Clara  and  Grace  put  on  their  bonnets,  knowing  that 
they  were  going  to  see  her,  I  asked  to  walk  with  them. 
They  were  very  glad  to  have  my  company,  but  asked  if  I 
would  go  with  them  through  the  wood  and  across  the  fields 
— there  were  only  two  fences  to  climb,  and  if  they  went  by 
the  road,  they  were  afraid  Cecille  would  have  set  out  be 
fore  they  could  get  to  her  house.  This  suited  me  well ; 
for  I  had  always  rather  go  through  a  wood  and  across 
fields,  than  by  a  dusty  road — so  we  were  soon  on  the  way. 
We  walked  on  very  quickly,  not  even  stopping  to  pick  the 
late  fall  flowers  which  we  saw,  though  we  marked  their  pla 
ces  that  we  might  get  them  as  we  came  back .  The  second  field 
we  crossed  opened  upon  Mrs.  Daly's  orchard,  from  which  we 
passed  through  the  yard,  and  would  have  entered  the  house 
by  the  back  door,  had  not  Mrs.  Daly  met  us  and  begged 
that  we  would  go  around  to  the  front.  "  Not  that  I  care 
about  it,  ma'am,"  said  she  to  me  in  an  apologizing  manner  : 
"  front  or  back,  it's  all  the  same  to  me ;  but  the  good  old 
lady  in  there" — pointing  to  the  room  near  which  we  stood 
— "  she's  a  clever  body,  but  she  has  some  queer  notions.  I 
guess  she's  been  a  lady  born,  and  she  don't  like  somehow 
that  people  should  see  them  work — so  she  wants  everybody 
to  go  to  the  front  door,  and  in  the  parlor,  where  they  only 
do  some  of  their  light  works ;  and  as  I  said  before,  it's  all 
the  same  to  widow  Daly — so  if  you  please,  ma'am,  I'll  show 
you  the  way  round." 

While  Mrs.  Daly  was  speaking,  I  had  caught  a  view 
through  the  half  open  shutter  of  the  inside  of  the  room  to 
which  she  had  pointed.  An  old  lady,  dressed  in  a  silk 
wrapper  which  even  at  that  distance  looked  old  and  faded, 


180  GRACE    AND    CLARA. 

was  seated  in  one  of  Mrs.  Daly's  high-backed,  straw-bot 
tomed  chairs,  near  a  small  table  on  which  was  spread  a 
clean  white  towel.  A  plate  with  a  slice  of  bread  was  be 
fore  her.  At  the  fireplace  stood  a  young  girl  stooping 
over  a  furnace  of  coal,  on  which  was  a  small  pan.  Though 
she  had  changed  her  dress  and  covered  her  head  with  a 
handkerchief,  probably  to  keep  her  hair  free  from  ashes  or 
soot,  I  had  no  difficulty  in  recognising  Cecille.  She  held 
a  spoon  in  her  hand,  and  occasionally  used  it  to  turn  or  stir 
what  was  in  the  pan.  I  was  so  much  interested  in  observ 
ing  her  movements,  that  I  said  to  Mrs.  Daly  that  I  would 
let  Clara  and  Grace  go  to  the  front  door,  and  speak  to  Ce 
cille,  and  I  would  await  them  where  I  then  was.  The 
children  and  Mrs.  Daly  had  just  left  me,  when  I  saw  Ce- 
cille's  glowing  and  pleased  face  turned  towards  her  grand 
mother,  while  by  the  motion  of  her  hand  she  seemed  to  ask 
for  her  plate.  The  old  lady  held  it  out,  the  pan  was  taken 
from  the  fire,  and  what  seemed  to  me  an  omelet  was  laid  on 
the  plate.  This,  you  know,  is  made  of  eggs,  and  it  re 
quires  some  skill  in  cookery  to  make  it  well.  I  judged  from 
Cecille's  looks  that  she  thought  this  was  well  done.  She 
was  evidently  more  pleased  with  her  success,  more  vain  of 
her  powers,  in  cooking,  than  in  painting  and  embroidery. 
From  her  grandmother's  pleased  countenance,  I  was  sure 
she  was  praising  the  omelet  and  its  maker.  After  a  while, 
however,  the  old  lady  looked  a  little  sad.  She  kissed  Ce 
cille's  cheek  as  she  was  bending  over  her,  and  taking  the 
handkerchief  from  her  head,  smoothed  the  hair  back  from 
her  forehead.  Then  she  offered  Cecille  her  plate,  and 
seemed  to  urge  her  to  take  some  of  her  own  cookery  ;  but, 
with  a  smile  and  shake  of  the  head,  Cecille  turned  to  a 
cupboard,  and  taking  from  it  a  bowl  of  milk  and  another 
plate  of  bread,  placed  them  on  the  table.  She  was  just 
seating  herself  by  her  grandmother,  when  Mrs.  Daly 
opened  the  door.  After  some  words  from  her,  Cecille  rose 
and  left  the  room,  and  but  a  few  minutes  passed  before  I 
was  again  joined  by  my  young  companions.  We  walked 
more  leisurely  home  again,  and  did  not  now  leave  the  flow 
ers  unplucked. 


GRACE    AND    CLARA.  181 


CHAPTER   VII. 

THE    BLIND    MAN. 

As  we  were  sitting,  one  afternoon  during  the  next  week, 
near  the  parlor  windows,  the  girls  and  myself  at  work  while 
Mrs.  Wilmot  read  out  for  us,  we  heard  the  gate  open,  and 
looking  up,  saw  an  old  man,  whose  clothes  seemed  to  have 
been  long  worn,  and  whose  white  hairs  were  covered  with 
a  ragged  straw  hat,  approaching  the  house.  A  little  boy 
was  with  him,  and  as  he  came  near,  we  saw  that  this  little 
boy  was  leading  him,  by  which  we  knew  that  the  poor  old 
man  was  blind.  He  seated  himself  on  the  step  of  the 
house,  and  taking  off  a  bag,  which  was  slung  over  his 
shoulder,  drew  a  violin  from  it,  and  began  to  play.  The 
children  wished  to  go  out  and  speak  with  him,  and  as  Mrs. 
Wilmot  did  not  object,  they  were  soon  gathered  round  him. 
I  followed  them.  They  listened  for  a  while  without  speak 
ing.  Then  Lucy  Wilmot,  the  youngest  of  the  group,  pressed 
up  to  his  side,  saying,  "  Cannot  you  see  at  all,  sir  ?" 

"  No,  my  little  miss.  But  though  I  cannot  see  you,  I  can 
hear  your  pleasant  voice,  and  I  know  that  you  are  sorry  for 
the  old  blind  man,  and  feel  kindly  to  him,  and  I  am  sure 
that  when  you  know  he  has  had  nothing  to  eat  to-day, 
though  he  has  come  a  great  way,  you  will  give  him  some 
thing." 

In  an  instant  all  were  in  motion,  and  Mrs.  Wilmot  was 
soon  busy  preparing  a  plate  of  victuals,  with  a  dozen  little 
hands  waiting  to  carry  it  to  the  old  man,  when  prepared. 
After  they  had  given  it  to  him,  the  girls  came  back  into  the 
house  till  the  first  note  of  his  violin  told  them  that  he  had 
dined,  when  again  they  flocked  around  him.  Most  people, 
and  especially  most  old  people,  like  to  tell  their  sorrows. 
The  old  man  was  therefore  quite  ready  to  answer  their  ques 
tions,  and  they  soon  learned  his  little  story.  It  was  a  very 
sad  one.  He  had  removed  some  years  before  with  his  son's 
family  to  a  newly  settled  western  state.  The  land  on  which 
they  had  made  their  home  proved  very  unhealthy.  His 
son  and  his  son's  wife  were  both  in  their  graves.  He  had 

16 


182  GRACE    AND    CLARA. 

been  very  ill  himself,  and  had  only  recovered  with  the  en 
tire  loss  of  sight,  and  with  a  constitution  so  broken  that  he 
felt  he  had  not  long  to  live.  "  And  glad  shall  I  be,"  he  said, 
"to  lay  this  weary,  sightless  body  down  in  the  grave,  to 
which  so  many  I  love  have  gone  before  me ;  but  first  I 
would  take  this  poor  orphanHaoy  to  those  who  will  take  care 
of  him." 

The  tired  travellers  had  yet  fifty  miles  to  go  before  they 
would  reach  the  home  of  the  old  man's  only  remaining 
child,  a  daughter,  who,  though  she  had  children  of  her 
own,  would  take  care  of  the  boy,  he  said,  for  the  love  of 
him  and  of  her  dead  brother.  Poor  little  boy !  how  sad 
and  weary  he  looked,  and  how  bitterly  he  wept  when  the 
old  man  talked  of  his  father  and  mother ! 

My  little  readers  will  easily  believe  that  this  sad  story 
excited  great  pity,  and  they  will  not  be  surprised  to  hear 
that  on  Clara  Devaux's  proposing  that  they  should  give  the 
old  man  something,  each  little  girl  brought  her  sixpence  or 
her  shilling  and  threw  it  into  a  bag  which  Clara  herself 
held.  As  the  proposal  had  been  hers,  I  was  very  desirous 
to  see  what  she  would  give,  but  this  I  could  not  do.  What 
ever  it  was,  it  made  no  noise  as  it  fell  into  the  bag,  from 
which  I  thought  it  must  be  paper  money,  and  consequent 
ly  could  not  be  less  than  one  dollar. 

Some  of  Grace  Wilmot's  movements  on  this  occasion 
excited  my  surprise  and  curiosity  very  much.  As  soon  as 
Clara's  proposal  was  made,  she  ran  into  the  parlor,  took 
from  her  work-basket  a  pocket-book,  and  taking  out  all  the 
money  it  contained,  counted  it  carefully  upon  the  table  be 
fore  her.  I  could  see  that  there  were  two  bills  and  two  sil 
ver  half  dollars.  Grace  took  one  of  the  bills,  and  putting  the 
rest  of  the  money  away,  turned  towards  the  door,  but  be 
fore  she  had  reached  it,  she  seemed  suddenly  to  have 
changed  her  mind,  and  going  back,  returned  the  bill  and 
took  in  its  place  one  of  the  half  dollars.  As  there  was  no 
one  in  the  parlor  but  herself,  Grace  did  apt  suppose  she  was 
seen,  till  raising  her  head,  she  caught  my  eye,  as  I  stood  at 
the  window,  looking  fixedly  at  her.  She  colored  very 
much,  and  running  hastily  to  Clara  dropped  her  half  dollar 
into  the  bag. 

Now  you  will  say  that  this  was  a  great  deal  for  a  young 
girl  like  Grace  to  give.  So  it  was,  and  few  little  girls 


GRACE    AND    CLARA.  183 

could  have  given  so  much.  But  I  had  seen  that  Grace  had 
more  money,  and  that  she  had  thought  of  giving  more  and 
then  had  withdrawn  it,  and  I  could  not  help  asking  myself 
over  and  over  again  what  could  have  been  her  reason  for 
doing  so,  whether  she  had  kept  it  back  for  some  more  im 
portant  purpose,  or  whether  it  had  been  only  for  some  self 
ish  gratification.  On  the  answer  to  this  question  my  opin 
ion  of  Grace  Wilmot  would,  I  felt,  greatly  depend.  Though 
I  had  to  wait  many  weeks  for  this  answer,  you  will  learn, 
when  you  have  read  this  little  book,  that  I  received  an  an 
swer,  and  what  that  answer  was. 


CHAPTER    VIII. 

INDIAN    SUMMER. 

ABOUT  a  fortnight  after  my  first  arrival  at  Hazel  Grove 
commenced  that  delightful  season  which  we  call  Indian 
Summer.  I  dare  say  you  all  know  that  by  this  we  mean 
the  two  or  three  weeks  of  mild  pleasant  weather  which  we 
generally  have  in  November,  after  the  frosty  nights  and 
cold  winds  have  made  us  suppose  that  Winter  has  come. 
I  have  no  doubt  that  you  all  love  better  to  be  in  the  open 
air  at  this  season  than  at  any  other, — that  you  play  more 
merrily  when  out,  and  go  in  more  reluctantly.  But  you 
have  perhaps  enjoyed  the  season  without  exactly  knowing 
the  reason  of  your  enjoyment.  Now  I  would  hav8  you, 
when  next  there  is  an  Indian  Summer,  notice  how  pure 
and  balmy  the  air  is,  and  of  how  deep  and  rich  a  yellow 
are  the  beams  of  the  sun.  I  would  have  my  young  friends 
observe  all  the  beautiful  and  pleasant  things  with  which 
God  has  surrounded  them,  for  if  they  do  not,  they  will 
fail  to  give  Him,  in  return,  the  tribute  of  loving  and 
grateful  hearts  which  is  due  to  Him. 

It  was  on  one  of  these  bright,  pure,  golden  days  in  Indi 
an  Summer  that  I  seated  myself  as  usual  after  breakfast  in 
Mrs.  Wilmot's  library,  but  I  tried  in  vain  either  to  read 
or  write.  Do  what  I  would,  my  eyes  would  turn  to  the 


184  GRACE    AND   CLARA. 

windows,  and  instead  of  the  words  on  the  page  before  me, 
I  saw  the  leaves  on  the  trees,  the  white  clouds  sailing  over 
the  bright  blue  sky,  or  the  little  birds  hopping  from  branch 
to  branch.  If  I  had  had  lessons  to  learn  that  day  I  know 
not  what  I  should  have  done, — but  I  had  no  lessons  to  learn, 
so  I  threw  my  book  aside,  put  on  my  shawl  and  bonnet, 
and  was  soon  walking  in  that  beautiful  wood  whose  appear 
ance  on  my  first  arrival  I  have  described  to  you.  De 
lightful  indeed  was  my  walk — full  of  pleasant  sights  and 
sounds, — and  often  did  I  wish  for  some  of  my  young  friends 
to  partake  of  my  enjoyments,  as  I  saw  a  shower  of  bright- 
colored  leaves  whirling  about  in  the  air  whenever  the  wind 
stirred  the  branches  of  the  trees,  or  a  shy  rabbit  spring 
away  to  a  safer  hiding-place,  or  a  startled  squirrel  dart  to 
the  topmost  boughs  which  overhung  my  path,  as  the  dry 
leaves  rustled  under  my  feet.  So  I  wandered  on,  observ 
ing  all  these  things,  but  meeting  no  one  till  I  had  nearly 
passed  the  wood.  Then  I  heard  a  low,  gentle  voice  sing 
ing.  I  listened,  approaching  as  softly  as  possible.  Soon  I 
could  hear  the  words,  and  found  that  they  were  French. 
It  was  a  hymn  describing  the  beauties  of  nature,  and  ex 
pressing  the  devotion  of  a  grateful  loving  heart  to  Him 
who  made  it  so  beautiful.  I  afterwards  had  the  words  of 
this  hymn  from  Cecille,  and  have  tried  to  translate  them 
into  English  verse  for  you.  Here  is  my  translation. 


CECILLE'S  HYMN. 


Thine,  Father,  is  yon  sky  so  bright, 
And  Thine  the  sun,  whose  golden  light 
Is  shed  alike  on  brook  and  sea, 
On  lowly  flower  and  lofty  tree. 
So  Thou,  in  equal  love,  hast  smiled 
On  seraph  high  and  humble  child. 


No  sea  on  which  the  sun  doth  look 
Gleams  brighter  than  yon  little  brook, 
The  loftiest  tree,  the  lowliest  flower, 
Alike  rejoice  to  feel  his  power ; 
And  Thou,  while  seraphs  hymn  thy  praise, 
Dost  bend  to  hear  my  simple  lays. 


GRACE    AND    CLARA.  185 

When  I  was  quite  near  Cecille  my  steps  caused  her  to 
look  around.  She  did  not  seem  at  all  startled  or  surprised 
at  seeing  me,  but  with  a  pleasant  smile  held  out  her  hand 
to  me  as  I  bade  her  good  morning. 

"  I  see,  Cecille,"  said  I,  "  that  this  lovely  weather  makes 
you  an  idler  as  well  as  me." 

"  Not  quite  an  idler,  ma'am,"  she  replied,  showing  me  a 
drawing  she  had  made  while  sitting  there,  of  the  Widow 
Daly's  cottage  and  orchard. 

"  For  what  is  that  pretty  drawing  intended,  Cecille  ?" 

"  I  hardly  know  yet,  ma'am.  The  sun  looked  so  bright 
and  warm,  that  grandmamma  knew  I  longed  to  be  in  it,  so 
she  made  me  put  away  my  embroidery  and  come  out,  and 
this  was  the  only  thing  I  could  do  out  here." 

After  looking  at  it  a  moment  in  silence,  she  added,  "  Do 
you  not  think  it  would  make  a  pretty  painting  for  the  top 
of  a  work-box  ?" 

"  Yes,  very  pretty  ;  but  are  you  never  idle,  Cecille  ?" 

"  Not  often,  ma'am,"  said  she,  modestly. 

"  And  do  you  not  get  weary  of  being  always  at  work  ?" 

"  Weary  of  working  for  grandmamma — dear,  good  grand 
mamma  !"  she  exclaimed,  with  energy.  "  Oh,  no  ! — never." 
A  minute  after,  speaking  more  quietly,  she  said,  "  Perhaps 
I  should  get  tired,  but  when  the  work  seems  dull  and  hard, 
I  always  remember  what  Mr.  Logan  told  me  to  do." 

"  And  what  was  that,  Cecille  ?" 

"  He  said  that  at  such  times  I  must  think  of  something 
that  grandmamma  wanted  very  much,  and  say  to  myself, 
this  will  help  me  to  buy  it  when  it  is  done,  and  he  was  sure 
then  I  would  not  get  tired,  or  want  to  put  my  work  down." 

"  Mr.  Logan  was  a  very  wise  man.  Where  did  you 
know  him  ?" 

"In  N.,  a  little  village  that  we  went  to  when  we  first 
came  over  from  France,  when  my  dear  papa  was  with  us. 
He  lived  there  with  us  for  four  years  before  he  went  back 
to  France.  My  own  dear  papa,  how  I  wish  I  could  see 
him !" 

"  You  remember  your  father  then,"  said  I. 

"  Remember  him  !"  she  repeated ;  "  why  it  is  only  two 
years  since  he  left  us  to  go  back  to  France." 

"And  what  made  him  leave  you,  Cecille?"  said  I — 
then  in  an  instant,  feeling  that  my  interest  in  Cecille  had 

16* 


186  GRACE    AND    CLARA. 

made  me  ask  a  question  which  it  might  be  wrong  in  her  to 
answer,  I  added,  "  Do  not  answer  me,  my  child,  if  it  was 
any  thing  which  you  think  your  father  would  not  wish 
you  to  tell." 

"  Oh,  no  !"  said  Cecille,  smiling,  "  it  was  only  because 
some  friends  wrote  to  him  to  say  that  if  he  would  come  to 
France,  they  thought  they  could  get  the  king  to  give  him 
back  an  estate  that  had  been  unjustly  taken  from  him." 

"  And  should  he  get  it,  would  you  return  to  France,  Ce 
cille  ?" 

"  Yes,  for  papa  and  grandmamma  love  France  so  well, 
that  they  will  never,  I  think,  be  quite  happy  anywhere 
else.  My  mamma  is  buried  there  too,  on  that  same  estate." 

"  Do  you  remember  her,  Cecille  ?" 

"  No — she  died  when  I  was  a  very  little  baby,  and  my 
grandmamma  took  care  of  me  just  as  if  she  had  been  my 
own  mamma.  Papa  told  me  all  about  it  the  night  before 
he  went  away  from  us,  and  then  he  divided  all  the  money 
that  was  left  of  what  he  had  brought  from  France  into  two 
parcels,  and  he  made  me  count  what  he  took,  and  showed 
me  that  it  was  just  enough  to  pay  for  his  going  back  ;  and 
he  told  me  how  much  was  in  the  other  parcel,  that  he  was 
to  leave  with  grandmamma.  It  seemed  a  great  deal  to  me 
then,  but  papa  said  it  was  very  little,  and  that  it  could  not 
last  long.  Then  he  told  me  that  he  had  taught  me  all  he 
could  himself,  and  had  others  teach  me  what  he  could  not, 
in  order  that  I  might  be  able  to  work  for  grandmamma  and 
myself,  and  I  must  do  it  when  that  money  was  gone,  if  I 
hoped  for  his  blessing." 

"  And  what  made  you  leave  N.  ?" 

"  Because  it  was  such  a  little  village  that  I  could  hardly 
get  any  work  there.  Mr.  Logan  advised  us  to  go  to  New 
York  ;  and  we  set  out  to  go  there,  but  the  stage  broke  down 
with  us  here,  and  if  it  was  not  that  poor  grandmamma  had 
suffered  so  much,  I  should  be  glad  it  did." 

"You  like  your  home  here,  then  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes  !  dear  Dr.  Willis  and  Mrs.  Wilmot  are  so  kind 
to  us.  And  then  it  is  so  pleasant  to  teach  Clara  and  Grace, 
and  every  month  to  carry  home  some  money  to  grandmam 
ma." 

"  Then  you  carry  to  her  whatever  is  paid  you  ?" 

"  Yes ;  and  after  she  has  taken  out  what  will  pay  Mrs. 


GRACE    AND    CLARA.  187 


Daly  our  rent,  and  any  thing  else  we  happen  to  owe,  she 
gives  me  back  the  rest  to  do  what  I  please  with.  I  long 
for  this  month  to  be  gone,  that  I  may  get  my  money, — for 
I  have  something  very  good  to  do  with  it  this  month." 

She  looked  up  so  pleasantly  in  my  face,  that  I  said, 
"  Will  you  not  tell  me  what  it  is,  Cecille  ?" 

"  Yes,  if  you  will  not  tell,  for  I  want  to  surprise  grand 
mamma.  I  am  going  to  get  her  some  flannel.  I  have 
found  out  already  how  much  it  will  cost,  and  I  will  have 
a  plenty  of  money,  with  a  little  that  I  laid  by  from  the  last 
month,  to  get  it.  Then  I  will  get  some  one  to  show  me 
how  to  cut  it  out,  and  it  shall  be  all  made  before  grand- 
mamma  sees  it.  Do  you  not  think  she  will  be  pleased  ?" 

"  Very  much  pleased,  I  doubt  not,"  I  replied,  "  and  you 
must  let  me  cut  it  for  you,  and  assist  you  in  making  it." 

"  Will  you  do  that.  ?     That  will  be  very  kind." 

We  were  both  silent  a  little  while,  when  Cecille,  sudden 
ly  looking  up,  asked,  "  Do  you  not  speak  French  ?" 

"  Yes,"  I  replied. 

"  Then  you  must  come  and  see  my  grandmamma.  Will 
you  not  ?" 

"  Certainly — with  pleasure  ;  but  does  she  not  speak  En 
glish  ?" 

"  A  little,  but  it  is  not  easy  to  her — and  so  I  do  not  ask 
people  to  see  her  who  cannot  understand  her  French." 

"  Shall  I  go  with  you  now  ?"  I  asked. 

Cecille  looked  up  to  the  sun  and  down  again,  without 
speaking.  I  saw  she  was  a  little  embarrassed,  and  said, 
"  You  would  rather  I  should  not  go  to-day." 

"  Yes — for  it  is  near  grandmamma's  dinner-time,  and  I 
must  go  to  get  it  for  her,"  she  added,  rising. 

I  rose  too,  and  taking  her  hand,  said,  "  Well,  good-by, 
Cecille — remember  we  are  not  to  be  strangers  any  longer." 

"  No,  no,"  she  said,  warmly,  "  friends — good  friends 
now."  She  held  up  her  face  to  be  kissed,  picked  up  her 
pencil  and  drawing,  and  hastened  away.  Before  she  had 
gone  far  I  could  again  hear  her  carolling  cheerfully,  "  Thine, 
Father,  is  yon  sky  so  bright." 


188  GRACE  AND  CLARA. 


CHAPTER    IX. 

PREPARATION. 

AFTER  this  pleasant  meeting,  Cecille  and  I,  as  you  may 
suppose,  were  very  friendly.  I  visited  her  grandmother, 
as  I  had  promised,  and  found  her  a  very  agreeable  and  ex 
cellent  old  lady.  I  often  made  my  visits  to  her  when  Ce 
cille  was  obliged  to  be  away,  and  then  she  loved  to  sit  and 
talk  to  me  of  her.  I  told  her  that  Cecille  said  she  had  ta 
ken  care  of  her  when  she  was  an  infant,  and  had  been  to 
her  as  her  own  mamma.  She  replied  to  this,  that  she  had  tried 
to  do  her  duty  by  her,  and  that  she  had  been  repaid  tenfold 
for  whatever  she  had  done  by  Cecille's  tenderness  and  re 
spect. 

"  Ah,  ma'am,"  she  would  say,  "  you  do  not  know  what 
it  is  to  suffer  want.  We  often  did  this,  and  I  would  have 
been  sad  indeed,  if  my  little  girl's  cheerfulness  had  not 
made  me  ashamed.  I  could  then  speak  little  English,  and 
Mr.  Logan,  who  was  our  only  friend  after  my  son  left  us, 
could  speak  no  French  ;  so  that  all  my  comfort  came 
through  Cecille.  One  day,  just  before  we  left  our  last 
home,  she  came  running  to  me,  full  of  gladness,  exclaim 
ing,  '  O,  grandmamma,  I  have  good  news  for  you.'  I 
thought  at  first  that  my  son  had  come  back,  or  at  least  that 
there  was  a  letter  from  him  ;  but  it  was  that  Cecille,  in 
reading  her  Bible,  had  just  met  with  a  verse  saying,  that 
'  the  young  ravens  may  lack  and  suffer  hunger,  but  they 
that  fear  the  Lord  shall  not  want  any  good  thing.'  '  And 
now,  grandmamma,'  she  said,  l  I  am  sure  you  will  have 
whatever  is  good  for  you,  for  you  fear  the  Lord.'  I  had 
often  read  the  same  verse  in  my  Bible,  but  1  had  never  felt 
it  to  be  so  full  of  comfort  as  I  did  then  ;  and  if  ever  I  live 
to  see  my  son's  face  again,  and  to  go  back  to  the  home  I  love 
in  France,  I  shall  feel  that  I  owe  it  to  that  dear  child,  for 
whom  I  thank  God  every  day." 

Madame  L'Estrange  always  spoke  in  French,  but  I  have 
translated  what  she  said,  that  my  readers  may  learn  from 


GRACE    AND    CLARA.  189 

Cecille's  example  that  the  youngest  child  may  do  good  to 
the  oldest  and  wisest.  I  would  have  them  remark,  too,  how 
much  wiser  it  is  to  cultivate  cheerful  feelings  than  to  be 
fretful  and  dissatisfied.  Do  you  not  suppose  that  Cecille, 
though  poor  and  alone  in  a  strange  country  with  her  feeble 
old  grandmother,  was  happier  with  her  cheerful  temper  and 
her  trust  in  the  goodness  of  her  kind  heavenly  Father,  than 
those  children  who  fret  at  being  awoke  in  the  morning,  though 
they  are  surrounded  with  every  comfort  and  have  the  kind 
est  people  to  attend  upon  them, — who  sit  down  with  dissat 
isfied  faces  to  a  breakfast-table  covered  with  good  things 
because  they  fancy  something  which  is  not  there,  and  who 
thus  go  through  the  whole  day  complaining  of  what  they 
have  and  wishing  for  what  they  cannot  get  ? 

But,  interested  as  I  was  in  Cecille,  you  must  not  suppose 
that  my  whole  attention  was  given  to  her,  or  that  I  failed 
to  make  friends  of  Clara  and  Grace  and  the  rest  of  Mrs. 
Wilmot's  children. 

November  seemed  to  be  quite  a  busy  month  with  these 
young  girls,  and  I  was  told  by  Mrs.  Wilmot  that  they  were  pre 
paring  for  an  examination,  which  would  take  place  early  in 
December,  when  their  friends  came  to  take  them  home  for 
the  Christmas  holidays.  This  explained  to  me  their  unu 
sual  attention  to  their  studies,  but  I  saw  there  was  some 
thing  more  in  their  minds,  of  which  Mrs.  Wilmot  knew 
nothing.  Instead  of  sitting,  when  they  were  at  work,  with 
their  kind  mamma  Wilmot  and  myself,  as  they  had  former 
ly  loved  to  do,  they  now  asked  to  sit  together  in  the  school 
room  ;  and  if,  while  they  were  there,  either  of  us  entered 
unexpectedly,  they  would  shuffle  away  their  work,  as  if 
they  did  not  wish  it  seen.  Harriet  was  with  them  at  these 
times,  but  though  I  could  not  help  feeling  a  little  curious 
about  their  movements,  I  would  not  ask  her  any  questions, 
because  I  was  sure,  if  not  bound  to  secrecy,  she  would  tell 
me  without  questioning.  I  was  not  kept  many  days  in  ig 
norance.  Mrs.  Wilmot  and  I  were  sitting  at  work  one  af 
ternoon,  when  Harriet  came  into  the  parlor  and  said, 
"  Aunt  Kitty,  the  girls  ask  you  to  go  into  the  schoolroom ; 
they  want  you  to  show  them  something  about  their  work." 

"  I  will  do  it,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Wilmot,  rising  before 
me. 

"  Oh  no,  Mrs.   Wilmot,"  said  Harriet  in  most  earnest 


190  GRACE    AND    CLARA. 

tones,  "  they  do  not  want  you  to  go,  ma'am ;  that  is," 
she  continued  in  a  confused  manner,  "  they  did  not  tell  me 
to  ask  you." 

"  Oh,  well,  my  dear  child,  do  not  look  so  agitated,"  said 
Mrs.  Wilmot  smiling,  "  I  will  not  go.  I  suppose  I  shall 
hear  the  secret  in  time.  I  am  quite  sure  there  is  nothing 
improper  in  it,  or  Aunt  Kitty  would  not  be  chosen  as  their 
confidant." 

I  went  with  Harriet  to  the  schoolroom,  and  found  that  my 
assistance  was  wanted  in  showing  Kate  Ormesby  how  to 
make  up  a  work-bag  which  she  had  been  embroidering  in 
worsted. 

"  And  why  was  this  a  secret  ?"  I  asked. 

Clara  undertook  to  explain.  They  were  getting  some 
presents  ready  for  Mamma  Wilmot,  and  they  did  not  wish 
her  to  know  any  thing  about  them  till  the  day  of  the  exam 
ination,  when  they  intended  to  put  them  on  her  table  with 
a  note  which  they  would  all  sign.  Then  their  work  was 
exhibited.  There  was  a  needle-book  from  one — a  pincush 
ion  from  another — a  pair  of  slippers  embroidered  on  canvass 
from  a  third,  and  the  work-bag  which  I  have  already 
named.  These  were  the  presents  prepared  by  Lucy,  Mar 
tha,  Emma,  and  Kate. 

"And  now  where  are  your  presents?"  I  asked,  turning 
to  Clara  and  Grace. 

"  Mine  is  not  done  yet,"  said  Clara. 

"  Well,  what  is  it  to  be  ?" 

"  A  locket,  set  with  Grace's  hair  and  mine,  and  with  our 
names  on  the  back  of  it." 

"  And  yours,  Grace  ?" 

She  colored  and  looked  down. 

"  Show  it  to  Aunt  Kitty,  Grace,"  said  Harriet ;  "I  am 
sure  she  will  think  it  very  pretty." 

"  I  do  not  wonder  you  are  ashamed  of  it,  Grace,"  said 
Clara,  quickly,  "  when  you  might  have  had  such  a  hand 
some  one,  so  cheaply  too." 

"  It  would  not  have  been  cheap  for  me,  Clara." 

"  Well,  I  should  think  a  handsome  hair  bracelet  cheap  for 
anybody  at  two  dollars  and  a  half,  but  some  people  never 
think  they  can  get  enough  for  their  money." 

I  saw  that  these  words  were  very  painful  to  Grace,  who 
turned  away  with  her  eyes  full  of  tears ;  and  as  there  is 


GRACE    AND    CLARA.  191 

nothing  more  disagreeable  to  me  than  to  hear  little  girls 
quarrel,  I  interrupted  any  farther  remarks  from  Clara,  by 
urging  Grace  to  show  me  her  present.  With  a  timid  man 
ner  she  took  out  of  her  basket  a  bracelet  of  hair,  very 
simply  woven,  which  she  had  just  commenced.  It  was 
pretty,  and  I  said  so  ;  yet  I  acknowledge  I  thought,  with 
Clara,  it  would  scarce  be  handsome  enough  for  such 
a  locket  as  she  described.  Again  I  asked  myself,  can 
Grace  be  selfish,  that  she  would  not  spend  her  money  on  a 
present  for  her  mother  ?  That  she  had  the  money  for  the 
bracelet  I  could  not  doubt,  for  I  knew  that  she  had  the 
same  allowance  for  pocket-money  that  Clara  had,  and  she 
was  able  to  buy  a  locket,  which  I  was  sure,  from  the  de 
scription,  must  cost  more  than  two  dollars  and  a  half.  Be 
sides,  if  she  had  not  the  money,  Clara  could  not  have  ex 
pected  her  to  buy  it,  or  have  been  angry  with  her,  as  she 
evidently  was,  for  not  doing  so.  These  thoughts  probably 
made  me  look  grave,  and,  if  I  might  judge  from  her  sad 
countenance,  poor  Grace  was  little  comforted  by  my  praise 
of  her  work.  I  observed,  after  this,  that  there  was  a  little 
coolness  between  Clara  and  Grace.  They  were  not  so 
constantly  together  as  they  had  been,  and  sometimes  Clara 
spoke  to  her  friend  in  a  very  tart  tone,  while  Grace  always 
seemed  gentle,  and  even  humble,  as  if  she  was  seeking  for 
giveness  for  some  wrong  she  had  done.  This  did  not  con 
vince  me  that  Clara  was  right  and  Grace  was  wrong,  for  I 
have  often  seen  the  person  who  was  most  to  blame  in  a 
quarrel,  the  most  angry — while  the  least  faulty  was  con 
ciliating  and  anxious  for  peace. 

After  this  the  girls  admitted  me  into  all  the  mysteries  of 
their  little  plot.  I  assisted  them  in  their  work  where  as 
sistance  was  needed,  and  was  consulted  on  all  their  ar 
rangements.  There  was  a  very  interesting  debate  on  the 
question  whether  the  presents  should  be  placed  on  Mrs. 
Wilmot's  toilet  table  before  she  was  awake  in  the  morning, 
and  so  meet  her  eye  when  she  first  arose ;  or  whether  they 
should  be  laid  on  the  library  table,  while  she  was  at  break 
fast.  I  gave  my  opinion  in  favor  of  the  last  arrangement ; 
and  at  length  brought  them  all  over  to  my  way  of  thinking, 
by  reminding  them  that  we  could  not  be  quite  sure  Mrs. 
Wilmot  would  sleep  on  that  morning  until  we  were  ready 
for  her  to  awake. 


192  GRACE    AND    CLARA. 

About  a  week  before  the  examination  Clara's  locket  was 
sent  home  by  the  jeweller.  She  brought  it  to  me,  and  I 
saw,  by  his  mark  on  the  paper  around  it,  that  its  cost  was 
four  dollars.  It  was  plainly  but  handsomely  made,  and 
the  initial  letters  of  her  name  and  Grace's  were  very  pret 
tily  engraved  upon  the  back.  When  the  bracelet  was  fin 
ished  they  were  both  to  be  sent  to  the  jeweller,  who  would 
put  them  together  with  small  gold  rings.  For  this  Grace 
would  pay  him.  Clara  continued  to  look,  and  even  some 
times  to  speak,  as  if  she  thought  it  would  be  quite  a  dis 
grace  to  her  locket  to  be  seen  in  such  company.  Grace 
bore  this  in  silence,  though  she  was  evidently  much  dis 
tressed  at  it. 


CHAPTER    X. 

A    DISAPPOINTMENT. 

THE  preparations  for  the  examination  had  not  interfered 
with  Cecille's  teaching.  She  came  as  regularly,  stayed  as 
long,  and  seemed  as  welcome  to  Clara  and  Grace  as  when 
they  had  only  their  usual  employments.  It  was  the  last 
Wednesday  in  November,  and  just  one  week  before  the 
day  fixed  for  the  examination,  that,  knowing  Cecille  would 
be  at  Hazel  Grove,  I  determined  to  walk  over  and  spend 
the  morning  with  her  grandmother.  On  my  way  I  met 
Cecille.  She  was  walking  very  briskly,  but  stopped  to 
shake  hands  with  me. 

"  I  am  going  to  see  your  grandmother,  Cecille,"  said  I. 

"  I  am  very  glad  ;  I  will  not  now  have  any  thing  to 
make  me  sorry  to-day.  This  is  one  of  my  bright  days. 
Do  you  know  why  ?" 

I  shook  my  head. 

"  No  ? — Do  you  not  know  that  this  is  my  pay-day  ? 
Grandmamma  will  soon  have  her  flannel,  if  you  help  me 
as  you  promised,  and  she  wants  it  in  this  weather." 

I  congratulated  Cecille  on  her  coming  pleasure,  promised 
her  my  help,  and  we  parted. 

I  spent  my  morning  very  ageeably  with  Madame  L'Es- 


GRACE    AND    CLARA.  193 

trange,  yet  I  listened  to  Mrs.  Daly's  clock,  which  stood  on 
the  mantelpiece,  and  watched  its  hands  with  as  much  impa 
tience  as  if  I  had  been  weary  and  longed  to  get  away.  The 
truth  was,  I  was  impatient  for  Cecille's  coming,  which  I  had 
determined  to  await,  that  I  might  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing 
her  happy  looks  when  her  wishes  were  accomplished  and  the 
money  was  actually  in  her  hands.  Did  you  ever  observe  how 
slowly  the  hands  of  a  clock  appear  to  move  when  they  are 
watched  ?  I  thought  this  morning  that  the  hour  from  ten 
to  eleven  was  the  longest  I  had  ever  passed.  It  did  pass, 
however,  and  at  length  I  saw  the  hour  hand  at  eleven  and 
the  minute  hand  at  twelve.  Now  I  began  to  watch  the 
windows,  for  I  thought  that  Cecille  must  soon  be  in  sight. 
But  here  again  I  was  disappointed,  and  both  her  grandmother 
and  myself  had  more  than  once  expressed  our  surprise  at 
her  delay,  before  she  appeared ; — and  then  I  could  scarce 
ly  believe  it  was  the  same  Cecille  whom  I  had  seen  in  the 
morning,  bounding  along  as  if  her  feet  scarce  touched  the 
earth.  She  walked  now  slowly  and  pensively,  and  I  even 
fancied  once  that  I  saw  her  wipe  her  eyes. 

As  she  came  near  the  house,  however,  she  looked  up  and 
her  step  became  more  brisk.  She  entered  the  room  where 
we  sat.  I  looked  at  her  anxiously,  but  she  turned  her  face 
away  as  if  she  could  not  bear  to  meet  my  eye,  and  walk 
ing  straight  up  to  her  grandmother,  put  a  parcel  into  her 
hand  and  stood  still  by  her  side. 

"  You  do  not  speak  to  your  friend,  my  dear,"  said  Ma 
dame  L'Estrange  without  opening  the  parcel,  about  which 
she  seemed  to  feel  no  curiosity. 

Cecille  put  her  hand  in  mine  without  speaking — then 
looked  again  at  her  grandmother,  who  had  by  this  time 
slowly  unfolded  the  packet.  She  looked  at  its  contents,  and 
then  lifting  up  her  face  with  a  smile  to  Cecille,  said,  "  Ah, 
little  pilferer  !  where  is  the  rest  ?" 

In  a  choked  voice  Cecille  answered,  "  There  is  no  more." 

"  There  is  no  more!"  exclaimed  Madame  L'Estrange; 
"  why  how  is  this,  Cecille  ?  This  is  but  half  of  what  you 
have  always  received  for  a  month's  teaching." 

Cecille  tried  to  answer,  but  in  vain.  Her  throat  swelled, 
her  lip  quivered,  and  throwing  herself  upon  her  grand 
mother's  bosom,  she  burst  into  tears.  Madame  L'Estrange 
was,  as  you  may  easily  suppose,  greatly  distressed.  She 

17 


194  GRACE    AND    CLARA. 

stroked  Cecille's  hair,  pressed  her  lips  to  her  head,  calling 
her  at  the  same  time  by  every  endearing  name  which  the 
French  language  furnishes,  and  repeatedly  asking,  "  What 
is  the  matter  ?  Has  any  one  been  harsh  to  my  child  ? 
Cecille,  what  have  they  done  to  you,  my  darling?" 

"  Nothing,  grandmamma,"  sobbed  out  Cecille ;  "  I  was 
only  grieved  because  I  had  no  more  money  to  bring  you 
to-day." 

"  My  dear  child  !  I  am  ashamed  of  you,  Cecille.  You 
should  have  been  more  thankful  for  this,  which  will  pay 
Mrs.  Daly,  and  we  owe  no  one  else." 

"  I  know  it,  grandmamma.  Besides,  Clara  will  pay  me 
next  week  when  her  father  comes  for  her,  and  that  is  a 
very  little  while  to  wait." 

"  And  what  made  you  grieve  so  unreasonably,  Ce 
cille  ?" 

Cecille  looked  at  me  with  a  half  smile  as  she  answered, 
"Because  I  wanted  that  money  just  to-day  very  much, 
grandmamma." 

"  And  why  just  to-day,  Cecille  ?" 

"  Ah,  grandmamma !  that  is  a  secret,"  and  Cecille  now 
laughed  with  as  much  glee  as  if  she  had  never  cried  in 
her  life. 

The  old  lady  laughed  too  ;  but  she  said,  "  Take  care, 
Cecille, — it  is  not  well  for  little  girls  to  have  secrets  from 
their  grandmammas." 

"  This  is  a  very  harmless  secret,"  said  I. 

Madame  L'Estrange  looked  at  me  with  some  surprise  as 
she  said,  "  You  know  it  then  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  I ;  "  but  you  must  not  be  jealous  that  Ce 
cille  chose  me  for  her  confidant,  all  little  girls  do.  Mrs. 
Wilmot's  children  have  just  been  consulting  me  on  a  very 
important  secret." 

"  They  told  me  about  it  to-day,"  said  Cecille  quickly, 
"and "I  asked  them  to  let  me  tell  grandmamma.  They 
were  quite  willing  I  should,  so  you  need  not  mind  speak 
ing  of  it." 

The  story  of  the  examination  and  of  the  presents  prepared 
for  Mrs.  Wilmot  on  that  day,  was  soon  told  to  Madame 
L'Estrange,  who  entered  into  the  little  plot  of  the  children 
with  great  enjoyment.  After  we  had  talked  of  it  a  while, 
I  said  to  Cecille  that  the  bracelet  Grace  was  preparing  did 


GRACE    AND    CLARA.  195 


not  please  Clara  very  much,  and  indeed  I  scarcely  thought 
it  handsome  enough  for  the  locket. 

"  I  wish  she  had  told  me  sooner,"  said  Cecille,  "  I  would 
have  shown  her  how  to  weave  a  handsome  one.  I  learned 
from  a  lady  who  came  over  from  France  with  us.  I  have 
done  several  since  I  came  here  for  Mr.  Brenner  the  jewel 
ler." 

"  Then  perhaps  you  made  the  one  which  Clara  wanted 
Grace  to  buy,  and  was  half  angry  with  her  for  not  buying." 

"  I  dare  say  it  is  one  of  mine ;  but  if  it  is,  Grace  could 
not  buy  it,  for  it  would  cost  two  dollars  and  a  half,  and  she 
had  but  little  more  than  a  dollar  left  after  paying  me  to 
day." 

"  How  did  you  find  that  out,  Cecille  ?"  asked  her  grand 
mother. 

"  Because,  grandmamma,  Grace  saw  that  I  looked  very 
sorry  when  Clara  said  she  could  not  pay  me,  and  she  fol 
lowed  me  out  and  begged  me  to  take  what  she  had  left,  and 
to  pay  her  back  when  Clara  paid  me." 

"  You  did  not  take  it  I  hope,  my  dear." 

"  No,  grandmamma,  though  I  would  have  done  it  if  I 
had  not  known  that  you  would  dislike  it,  and  so  I  told  Grace." 

"  You  were  right,  Cecille,  in  not  taking  it.  Better  even 
weep  as  you  have  done  to-day  for  an  ungratified  wish,  than 
borrow  money  and  perhaps  be  disappointed  in  your  expec 
tation  of  repaying  it." 

"  I  shall  not  be  disappointed  in  that,  grandmamma,  for 
Clara  says  she  will  certainly  pay  me  the  next  week." 

"  Clara  no  doubt  once  thought,  my  dear,  that  she  would 
certainly  pay  you  to-day.  She  may  be  mistaken  again." 

"  Clara  was  very  sorry,  grandmamma,"  said  Cecille 
kindly. 

"  I  do  not  doubt  it,  my  dear.  She  is,  I  dare  say,  a  good 
little  girl  and  means  well,  but  she  is  thoughtless,  or  she 
would  not  have  spent  her  money  even  on  a  present  for  Mrs. 
Wilmot  before  she  had  paid  her  debts.  What  she  owed  to 
you  was  in  truth  not  her  own,  but  yours." 

"  Grandmamma,  don't  be  angry  with  Clara.  You  could 
not  help  loving  her  if  you  knew  her,  she  is  so  generous." 

"  I  am  not  angry  with  her,  my  dear.  I  do  love  her  for 
her  kindness  to  you,  and  from  many  things  you  have  told 
me,  I  believe  she  is  generous,  but,  Cecille,  she  is  not  just." 


196  GRACE    AND    CLARA. 

"  That  locket  cost  a  great  deal,  I  dare  say,  grandmamma, 
and  then  Clara  gives  something  to  everybody  that  asks  for 
money.  She  is  so  generous." 

"  Generous  but  not  just,  Cecille,  when  she  gives  what 
she  already  owes  to  another." 

I  saw  that  Cecille  was  hardly  satisfied  with  her  grand 
mother's  views  of  Clara,  and  yet  they  were  so  true  that  she 
could  not  oppose  them. 

For  my  part,  I  had  been  thinking  of  Grace.  My  readers 
will  not  have  forgotten  that  Grace's  having  changed  the  bill 
she  at  first  intended  giving  the  blind  man  for  a  half  dollar, 
and  her  contenting  herself  with  giving  her  mother  a  brace 
let  of  her  own  weaving,  instead  of  spending  money  on  her 
present,  as  the  other  girls  had  done,  had  made  me  fear  that 
she  might  be  a  little  selfish — that  her  money  might  be  saved 
for  some  gratification  that  should  be  entirely  her  own.  I 
now  began  to  hope  that  Grace  was  not  less  generous,  but 
that  she  was  more  just  than  Clara. 

"  Is  not  Grace  generous  too  ?"  said  I  to  Cecille. 

"  Is  not  Grace  generous  !"  she  repeated,  as  if  surprised 
at  my  question. 

"  Have  you  ever  thought  that  she  was  selfish  ?"  I  asked 
in  yet  stronger  language. 

"  Grace  selfish  !"  exclaimed,  Cecille  :  "  oh,  no  !  I  never 
saw  her  do  a  selfish  thing." 

"Do  you  think  her  as  generous  as  Clara?" 

"  As  generous  as  Clara,"  she  again  repeated,  and  then 
said  doubtfully,  "  Clara  is  so  generous." 

"  You  do  not  think  then  that  Grace  takes  as  much  pleas 
ure  in  giving  to  another  as  Clara  does  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes !  I  think  she  does.  Grace  never  seems  so 
happy  as  when  she  happens  to  have  what  another  person 
wants." 

"In  what  then  is  she  less  generous  than  Clara  ?" 

"  Why" — Cecille  stopped  suddenly — thought  a  little, 
and  then  said,  "  I  do  not  know  what  could  have  made  me 
think  so, — only  that  I  never  saw  Grace  give  all  that  she 
had  in  her  purse  as  I  have  seen  Clara  do." 

"  Perhaps  that  is  because  Grace  remembers  what  Clara 
seems  sometimes  to  forget,  that  she  has  no  right  to  give 
away  that  which  belongs  to  another." 

"Clara  does  not  give  away  what  belongs  to  another." 


GRACE    AND    CLARA.  197 

"  Does  not  Clara's  father  allow  her  as  much  money  as 
Mrs.  Wilmot  allows  Grace  ?" 

"  Yes — just  the  same." 

"  Then  how  is  it  that  Grace  could  pay  you  and  Clara 
could  not  ?  If  Clara  has  given  away  what  should  have  been 
paid  to  you,  she  has  given  away  what  did  not  belong  to  her. 
In  her  gerierosity  she  has  forgotten  justice,  while  Grace 
seems  to  have  remembered,  '  to  be  just  before  she  was  gen 
erous.'  ' 

The  clock  striking  twelve  interrupted  our  conversation, 
by  reminding  me  that  it  was  time  to  return  home. 


CHAPTER   XI. 

PLEASURE    AND    PAIN. 

THE  third  of  December  had  been  fixed  for  the  day  of  ex 
amination,  and  the  children  at  Hazel  Grove  were  so  indus 
trious  that  some  days  before  that,  both  the  presents  and  the 
studies  were  completed — except  the  bracelet,  which  went  on 
very  slowly  indeed — but  which  Grace  assured  Clara  should  be 
ready  in  time.  For  the  last  few  days,  when  the  girls  were  out 
of  school,  time  seemed  to  pass  as  slowly  with  them  as  it  did 
with  me  on  the  morning  I  sat  with  Madame  L'Estrange 
expecting  Cecille.  Now,  as  then,  however,  it  did  pass. 

The  first  of  December  had  been  a  stormy  day,  but  the 
next  morning  was  as  clear  and  bright  as  if  no  cloud  had 
ever  been  seen.  But  it  was  so  cold  that  even  the  children 
preferred  gathering  around  the  fire  to  running  out,  and  for 
me,  I  could  scarcely  persuade  myself  to  look  out.  Poor 
Dr.  Willis !  how  he  shivered,  and  how  cold  even  his  horse 
looked,  as  he  drove  up  to  the  gate  at  Hazel  Grove,  where 
he  had  been  sent  for,  to  visit  a  servant  who  was  sick.  He 
came  in,  rubbing  his  hands,  and  declaring  it  was  the  cold 
est  day  he  had  felt  this  year.  "  Ah  !  young  ladies,"  said 
he,  "  you  none  of  you  know  the  comfort  of  this  warm  fire 
as  I  do.  You  must  ride  three  miles  facing  this  northwest 
wind  before  you  can  really  enjoy  it.  But  even  that,'  ^e 

17* 


198  GRACE    AND    CLARA. 

added  a  moment  after,  "  is  better  than  to  sit  still  in  the 
house  with  little  or  no  fire  as  some  poor  people  must  do. 
By  the  by,"  he  continued,  turning  to  Mrs.  Wilmot,  "  I 
stopped  to  see  Cecille  and  her  grandmother  on  my  way 
here,  and  very  glad  I  was  to  see  them  enjoying  a  blazing 
fire." 

"  I  have  been  thinking  of  them  this  morning,  and  fearing 
that  they  would  not  be  prepared  for  this  suddenly  severe 
cold,"  said  Mrs.  Wilmot.  "  How  do  they  get  their  fuel  ?" 

"  It  was  wanting  to  knpw  that  which  made  me  call  this 
morning.  Poverty  certainly  sharpens  the  wit,  for  that  lit 
tle  child" — Cecille  was  so  small  that  everybody  thought  of 
her  as  a  little  child — "  manages  as  well  as  any  man  could  do. 
The  widow  Daly  supplies  them  with  fuel  for  a  small  ad 
ditional  charge  to  her  month's  rent.  The  old  lady  needs  a 
warm  fire,  for  her  dress  is  not  thick  enough — she  ought  to 
have  flannel." 

"  And  has  she  not  ?" 

"No — I  asked  Cecille  about  it  and  she  colored  up  and 
looked  as  much  distressed,  poor  child,  as  if  it  had  been  her 
fault  that  her  grandmother  was  without  it.  She  shall  have 
it,  she  says,  in  a  few  days,  as  soon  as  she  gets  some  money 
that  she  is  expecting.  I  offered  to  lend  her  some  till  then, 
but  her  grandmother  had  forbidden  her  borrowing." 

"  In  which  I  think  she  is  very  wise,"  said  Mrs.  Wilmot, 
"  but  I  wish  whoever  owes  her  money,  knew  how  much  she 
needs  it  just  now  ;  they  might  pay  her,  even  if  it  be  a  little 
before  the  time.  No  one  I  hope  would  be  so  cruelly  un 
just  as  to  keep  her  out  of  her  little  earnings  one  day  tifter 
they  were  due." 

I  could  not  see  Clara's  face  as  I  tried  to  do  at  this  time, 
for  she  was  looking  out  of  the  windows,  but  Grace  colored 
as  violently  and  looked  as  confused  as  if  she  had  been  guilty 
of  what  her  mother  thought  so  wrong.  Her  confusion  at 
tracted  Mrs.  Wilmot's  attention.  "  Grace,"  said  she,  "  you 
do  not  owe  Cecille  any  thing  I  hope." 

"No,  mamma,  I  paid  her  the  last  week." 

Mrs.  Wilmot  turned  to  speak  to  Clara,  but  she  had  left 
the  room.  Dr.  Willis,  having  warmed  himself,  now  asked 
to  see  his  patient.  This  withdrew  Mrs.  Wilmot's  attention 
from  Cecille,  and  she  probably  did  not  again  think  of  what 
had  passed, — at  least  she  asked  no  more  questions  about  it. 


GRACE    AND    CLARA.  199 

She  left  the  parlor  with  Dr.  Willis,  and  soon  after  I  rose  to 
go  to  my  room.  In  going  there  I  had  to  pass  through 
the  library.  .There  were  heavy  curtains  to  the  windows 
of  this  room,  and  as  I  entered,  I  heard  sobs  which  seemed 
to  come  from  behind  one  of  these  curtains,  and  then  Grace, 
who  had  left  the  parlor  a  little  before  me,  saying,  "  Do  not 
cry  so,  Clara,  pray  do  not  cry  so.  Let  us  carry  Cecille 
what  money  we  have — that  will  be  some  help,  you  know, 
and  your  father  will  be  here  this  evening  and  give  you  the 
rest." 

"  How  often  must  I  tell  you,  Grace,  that  I  have  not  any 
money  ?  Did  you  not  see  me  give  all  that  I  had  to  the 
jeweller  ?"  asked  Clara  impatiently. 

"  Yes,  dear  Clara, — but  I  have  some." 

"  But  I  will  not  take  your  money,  I  tell  you,  after  your 
saving  it  up  so  carefully." 

"Yes,  Clara,  you  will  take  it,  if  you  love  me  as  you  used 
to  do  ;  you  know  I  did  not  save  it  up  for  myself,  Clara, — 
you  know  I  would  have  given  it  all  to  that  poor  blind  man, 
if  I  had  not  promised  you  to  buy  a  bracelet  for  your  locket. 
How  glad  I  am  now  that  it  was  not  enough  for  the  brace 
let,  so  that  we  can  have  it  for  Cecille." 

"  And  if  I  take  it  for  Cecille,"  said  Clara,  "  I  should 
*ftce  to  know  how  the  locket  will  get  fastened  to  the  brace 
let." 

"  Oh,  never  mind  that,"  said  Grace,  "  we  can  sew  it  on 
now  and  have  it  fastened  better  by-and-by,  mamma  will 
not  care  how  it  is  done.  So  come,  Clara,  I  know  you  will 
feel  a  great  deal  better  after  you  have  seen  Cecille  and 
given  her  some  money,  and  told  her  how  soon  you  hope  to 
have  the  rest  for  her." 

I  heard  no  more,  but  after  I  went  to  my  room  I  saw  the 
two  girls,  wrapped  in  their  cloaks,  set  out  for  Cecille's ;  so  I 
knew  that  Clara  had  been  persuaded. 

Early  in  the  afternoon  of  this  day  the  children  began  to 
gaze  from  the  windows  which  looked  towards  the  road  for 
the  carriages  of  their  friends,  who  were  expected  to  attend 
the  examination  of  the  next  day  and  to  take  them  home  on 
the  day  after.  In  about  two  hours  after  their  watch  com 
menced,  a  carriage  arrived  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ormesby, 
and  shortly  after  Mrs.  Williams  came,  but  the  evening 
passed  away — it  was  bedtime — and  nothing  had  been  seen 


200  GRACE    AND    CLARA. 

or  heard  of  Mr.  Devaux.  Clara  became  so  agitated  that 
as  Mrs.  Wilmot  bade  her  good-night,  she  said  to  her  in  an 
affectionate  and  soothing  tone,  "  Do  not  look  so  distressed, 
dear  child,  your  father  will  be  here  perhaps  before  you  are 
up  in  the  morning." 

But  Clara  rose  the  next  morning  to  fresh  disappointment. 
Her  father  had  not  come.  Knowing  the  cause  of  her  anxi 
ety,  I  was  much  interested  in  her  feelings  and  observed  her 
closely.  She  ate  but  little  breakfast,  and  every  time  the 
door  opened  she  turned  quickly  towards  it. 

The  other  children  were  full  of  interest  about  their  pres 
ents.  They  had  been  placed  on  the  library  table  when 
Mrs.  Wilmot  went  into  the  breakfast  parlor.  With  them 
was  the  following  note,  sealed,  and  placed  so  that  it  must 
attract  her  attention  the  moment  she  entered  the  room  : 

"  DEAR  MAMMA — 

Accept  these  keepsakes  from  your  affectionate  and  grate 
ful  children,  Clara,  Martha,  Kate,  Emma,  Grace,  Lucy." 

Clara  was  so  much  absorbed  in  her  anxiety  about  her 
father's  delay  that  she  seemed  to  have  little  interest  in  these 
arrangements,  and  Grace  was  occupied  with  her.  Thu^ 
to  the  younger  children  was  left  the  management  of  an  a^ 
fair  which  had  occupied  all  their  minds  so  long.  I  had  un 
dertaken  to  get  Mrs.  Wilmot  to  the  library,  so,  after  break 
fast,  calling  her  out  of  the  parlor,  I  led  the  way  thither 
and  walked  directly  up  to  the  table.  The  children  fol 
lowed,  and  were  in  time  to  see  her  glistening  eyes  as  she 
read  the  note,  and  to  receive  her  caresses  as  she  raised  her 
head  and  saw  them  standing  near  the  door.  After  the  first 
emotion  of  receiving  the  presents  had  subsided,  they  were 
examined  and  admired.  "  This,"  said  Mrs.  Wilmot,  as 
she  clasped  the  locket  on  her  arm,  "  is  a  joint  present,  I  sup 
pose,  from  Grace  and  Clara.  It  is  too  expensive  to  have 
been  from  one." 

"  The  bracelet  only  is  mine,  mamma,"  said  Grace  in  a 
low  voice,  as  if  again  she  felt  a  little  ashamed  of  her  pres 
ent,  "  Clara  bought  the  locket  herself." 

"  My  dear  Clara,  how  long  you  must  have  been  saving 
your  money,  and  how  much  self-denial  you  must  have 
practised  before  you  could  pay  for  so  costly  an  ornament  ! 


GRACE    AND    CLARA.  201 

It  is  paid  for,"  she  added  inquiringly,  as  she  saw  the  color 
mount  to  Clara's  very  temples  on  hearing  her  praise. 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  said  Clara,  and  Mrs.  Wilmot  again  fast 
ened  the  locket,  which  she  had  unclasped  while  asking  her 
question. 

"  Is  not  this  hair  yours  and  Clara's,  Grace  ?"  asked  Mrs. 
Wilmot,  bending  down  her  head  to  examine  the  bracelet. 

"  Yes,  mamma." 

"  And  who  wove  the  bracelet  for  you  ?" 

"  I  wove  it.  I  know  it  is  not  handsome  enough  for  the 
Idbket,  mamma,  but  it  was  the  best  I  could  do,  and  I  had 
not  money  enough  to  buy  one." 

"  It  is  very  neatly  done,  my  dear,  and  if  it  were  less 
pretty  than  it  is,  I  should  thank  you  for  it  far  more  than  for 
a  handsomer  one  which  had  cost  more  than  you  could  prop 
erly  give.  But  I  thank  all  my  children,  and  accept  all 
their  presents  with  pleasure,  because  I  am  sure  they  all 
know  that  they  cannot  be  generous  without  first  being  just. 
You  would  none  of  you,"  she  continued,  looking  tenderly 
round  upon  them,  '^  you  would  none  of  you  grieve  me,  by 
giving  me  that  which  was  not  really  your  own,  and  nothing 
is  your  own  till  it  is  paid  for — not  even  the  premiums  you 
are  to  have  to-day,  and  which  you  must  now  come  to  the 
schoolroom  and  win  by  well-said  lessons."  This  was  said  gay- 
ly,  as  Mrs.  Wilmot  turned  towards  the  schoolroom,  whither 
she  was  followed  by  all  the  children — all  light-hearted  and 
happy,  except  Clara. 

Poor  Clara  !  how  painfully  she  felt  every  word  Mrs. 
Wilmot  had  said.  Whatever  were  her  faults,  she  had  al 
ways  been  quite  sure  that  she  had  one  virtue — generosity, 
and  now  she  began  to  feel  that,  in  this  instance  at  least,  she 
had  been  very  ungenerous,  for  she  had  gratified  herself  in 
making  the  most  costly  present  to  her  mamma  Wilmot  at 
the  expense  of  poor  Cecille.  And  when  she  entered  the 
schoolroom,  there  stood  Cecille,  whom  the  girls  had  invited. 
How  she  shrank  from  meeting  her  eye  !  How  she  dreaded 
to  approach  her,  lest  Cecille  should  ask  if  her  father  had 
come  ! 

Some  of  Mrs.  Wilmot's  friends  from  the  neighboring  vil 
lage  arrived,  and  then  the  examination  commenced.  Ex 
aminations  I  doubt  not  you  have  all  attended,  but  perhaps 
none  conducted  exactly  as  this  was.  The  object  here,  was  not 


202  GRACE    AND    CLARA. 

to  show  which  scholar  was  best,  or  how  far  one  surpassed 
all  others,  but  how  good  all  were.  Each  little  girl  was 
encouraged  to  do  her  best,  and  they  all  rejoiced  in  the  suc 
cess  of  each  one.  After  they  had  been  examined  in  their 
various  studies,  some  of  their  work  was  exhibited — among 
the  rest,  Clara's  embroidery  and  Grace's  painting.  These 
were  very  highly  extolled,  and  Cecille,  being  pointed  out 
by  Mrs.  Wilmot  as  their  teacher,  received  many  compli 
ments,  and  some  persons  from  the  village  inquired  her 
terms,  and  thought  she  might  have  several  pupils  there  when 
the  holidays  were  over.  I  was  much  pleased  to  hear  thiS, 
as  it  promised  greater  gain  for  my  little  friend. 

Clara  had  appeared  well  in  all  her  studies,  her  work 
had  been  admired,  her  young  companions  had  evinced  their 
affection  for  her  in  a  hundred  different  ways,  and  Mrs. 
Wilmot  had  spoken  to  her  with  more  than  her  usual  tender 
ness,  because  she  saw  that  she  was  distressed  by  her  fa 
ther's  delay.  Yet,  notwithstanding  all  this,  Clara  had  nev 
er  been  so  unhappy  as  on  this  day.  All  coldness,  howev 
er,  had  vanished  between  her  and  Grace,  who  never  passed 
her  without  a  pressure  of  the  hand,  or  some  soothing  word 
or  action.  As  the  day  passed  on  and  the  afternoon  wore 
away  without  any  tidings  of  Mr.  Devaux,  the  color  deep 
ened  on  Clara's  face,  and  she  grew  so  nervous  and  agita 
ted,  that  I,  who  watched  her  closely,  expected  every  mo 
ment  to  see  her  burst  into  tears.  All  this  distress  must 
have  appeared  very  unreasonable  to  those  who  supposed 
that  it  was  caused  only  by  anxiety  about  her  father,  whom 
Mrs.  Wilmot  had  not  very  confidently  expected.  But  there 
were  three  persons  present — Cecille,  Grace,  and  I — who 
better  understood  its  cause.  On  her  father's  coming  would 
depend  Clara's  power  of  keeping  her  promise  with  Cecille. 
Cecille's  present  want  of  the  money,  of  which  perhaps 
Clara  would  have  thought  little  but  for  the  remarks  of  Dr. 
Willis  on  the  day  before,  was  sufficient  to  make  her  ear 
nestly  desirous  of  paying  her :  but  Clara  had  yet  another 
reason ;  she  dreaded  lest  Mrs.  Wilmot  should  hear  of  this 
debt. 

My  young  readers  will  have  learned  from  the  remarks 
made  by  Mrs.  Wilmot  in  the  morning  to  her  children,  even 
at  the  very  moment  of  receiving  their  presents,  how  strict  was 
her  sense  of  justice.  No  principle  had  she  endeavored  to 


GRACE    AND    CLARA.  203 

inculcate  on  her  pupils  more  earnestly  than  this,  and  Clara 
could  not  forget  that  she  had  only  the  day  before  called 
the  person  cruelly  unjust,  who  should  keep  Cecille's  mon 
ey  from  her  for  a  day.  It  was  the  first  time  Clara  had 
ever  desired  to  keep  secret  from  Mrs.  Wilmot  any  thing 
she  had  done,  and  this,  my  dear  young  friends,  is  the  worst 
of  all  unhappiness,  to  have  done  what  we  are  ashamed  or 
afraid  to  confess.  'Clara  had  been  perhaps  a  little  vain  of 
her  locket  and  of  her  generosity,  as  she  thought  it,  in 
making  such  a  present,  but  I  have  no  doubt  she  would  now 
gladly  have  changed  places  with  Grace,  and  have  been  the 
giver  of  only  the  humble  bracelet.  I  do  not  think  Grace 
was  now  at  all  ashamed  of  her  bracelet — indeed  she  seemed 
to  love  to  look  upon  it ;  and  well  she  might,  since  it  was  a 
proof  that  not  even  Clara's  contempt  or  anger,  or  the  desire 
to  show  her  regard  to  her  mother,  could  make  her  forget  the 
principles  of  justice  which  that  dear  mother  had  taught  her. 
She  had  proved  her  generosity  by  giving  all  she  had — all 
that  was  her  own — but  she  had  refused,  for  any  reason,  to 
spend  that  which  was  not  her  own. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

THE    DISCLOSURE. 

THE  day  was  past,  the  visitors  from  the  village  had  left 
us,  and  we  were  gathered  around  the  parlor  fire  to  spend 
our  last  evening  together,  for  the  next  morning  our  little 
party  at  Hazel  Grove  would  separate.  Mrs.  Wilmot  had 
promised  to  return  home  with  me  for  the  holidays.  Grace 
had  long  ago  promised  to  spend  that  time  with  Clara,  and 
Mrs.  Wilmot  had  been  prevailed  upon  to  consent  that  Lucy 
should  accompany  her  friend  Martha. 

The  sound  of  carriage  wheels  drew  Clara  and  Grace  to 
the  window. 

"  Oh,  Clara  !"  exclaimed  Grace,  "  it  is  your  father." 

"  Yes,"  said  Clara,  joyfully,  "  I  know  the  white  horses, 


204  GRACE    AND    CLARA. 

— but  why  do  they  not  drive  to  the  door  ?  What  is  papa 
going  to  the  stables  for  ?" 

The  question  was  soon  answered.  A  servant  entered 
with  a  note  for  Mrs.  Wilmot ;  she  glanced  at  it  and  then 
handed  it  to  Clara,  saying,  "  There,  my  dear  Clara,  you 
will  find  there  is  no  further  cause  for  anxiety.  Your  fa 
ther  has  been  detained  by  business,  but  he  has  sent  the  car 
riage  for  you  and  Grace." 

Clara  had  seized  the  offered  note,  and  was  reading  with 
such  eagerness,  that  I  do  not  think  she  heard  what  Mrs. 
Wilmot  said.  As  she  saw  from  the  note  that  her  father 
was  not  coming, — still  more,  that  he  would  have  left  home 
before  she  could  arrive  there  the  next  day,  on  business 
which  might  oblige  him  to  be  absent  for  some  weeks, — the 
thought  that  she  must  either  keep  Cecille  waiting  dur 
ing  all  that  time,  or  make  the  dreaded  betrayal  of  her 
fault  to  Mrs.  Wilmot,  oppressed  her  so  much  that  she  burst 
into  tears. 

"  Clara,  my  dear  child,  what  is  the  matter  ?"  said  Mrs. 
Wilmot  drawing  to  her  side.  "  This  is  something  more 
than  sorrow  at  not  seeing  your  father."  She  paused,  but 
Clara  did  not  speak.  "Is  there  any  thing  you  wished  him 
to  do  for  you,  my  dear  ?  Surely,  if  there  is,  you  will  not 
hesitate  to  speak  your  wish  to  me."  Clara  was  still  silent. 
"  I  am  grieved  at  this  silence,  Clara,  I  thought  you  loved 
me  and  confided  in  my  affection  ;  but  perhaps  you  would 
rather  speak  to  me  alone.  Come  with  me  to  the  library." 

Mrs.  Wilmot  then  left  us,  leading  Clara  with  her.  She 
closed  the  library  door  after  her,  and  we  could  then  hear 
only  the  low  murmur  of  her  voice  or  Clara's  heavy  sobs. 
Grace  seemed  very  anxious.  She  approached  the  library 
door  at  one  time  as  if  she  was  going  in, — then  went  to  the 
farthest  part  of  the  room  from  it.  At  length,  her  mother 
opened  the  door  and  called  her.  Grace  sprang  to  the  door 
and  was  admitted.  There  was  something  sad  in  the  tone 
of  Mrs.  Wilmot's  voice,  which  made  me  certain  that  Clara 
had  told  her  all  ;  but  I  did  not  hear  how  she  had  told  it,  till 
many  days  after,  when  Mrs.  Wilmot  related  the  scene  to  me 
as  I  am  about  to  describe  it  to  you. 

As  soon  as  they  entered,  Mrs.  Wilmot  seated  herself  on  a 
sofa,  and  placing  Clara  by  her  side,  strove  to  win  her  con 
fidence  by  every  soothing  and  affectionate  word  and  action. 


GRACE    AND    CLARA.  205 

At  last  with  great  effort  Clara  said,  "  You  will  be  so  angry 
with  me,  mamma  Wilmot,  if  I  tell  you,  that  you  will  nev 
er  love  me  again." 

"  Clara,  I  am  angry  only  with  those  who  are  obstinate  in 
doing  wrong — never  with  those  who  confess  their  faults 
and  try  to  amend." 

"  But  you  will  think  me  so  cruel  and  unjust." 

"  Cruel  I  cannot  believe  you  to  have  been,  Clara,  and  if 
you  have  committed  an  act  of  injustice,  and  you  may  by 
confiding  in  me  be  assisted  in  making  amends  for  it,  it  is  a 
new  reason,  my  child,  why  you  should  speak  at  once. 
What  is  it,  Clara  ?"  Mrs.  Wilmot's  eye  rested  just  then  on 
the  locket  which  she  wore  on  her  wrist,  and  this  prompted 
the  question — "  Clara,  did  you  speak  the  whole  truth  to-day 
when  you  told  me  this  locket  was  paid  for  ?  Do  you  owe 
nothing  on  it  ?" 

"  No,  mamma  Wilmot ;  nothing  on  that,  but  I  owe — " 
she  stopped. 

"  Not  Cecille,  Clara,"  said  Mrs.  Wilmot ;  "  you  could 
not  be  so  thoughtless — so  selfish — as  to  keep  her  hard  earn 
ings  from  her  for  a  single  day,  for  any  purpose  of  your 
own.  Speak,  my  child,  and^tell  me  it  is  not  so." 

Clara  spoke  not — moved  not — except  that  her  head  sunk 
lower  and  lower,  till  it  almost  rested  on  her  knees.  "  Tell 
me,  Clara,  if  you  have  done  this  wrong,  that  I  may  make 
amends  for  it  at  once.  Do  you  owe  Cecille  ?" 

"Yes,"  faltered  Clara. 

Mrs.  Wilmot  rose,  and  after  calling  Grace,  seated  herself 
at  the  library  table  and  wrote  a  few  lines  to  Cecille,  in 
which  she  was  about  to  enclose  the  price  of  a  month's  tu 
ition,  when  Grace,  who  had  seen  her  counting  it  out,  said, 
"  Mamma,  Clara  does  not  owe  Cecille  so  much,  she  paid  her 
some." 

"  Clara,"  asked  Mrs.  Wilmot,  "  how  much  do  you  owe 
Cecille  ?" 

'I  do  not  know  exactly,  ma'am." 

'  How  much  did  you  pay  her  ?" 

'  All  that  Grace  had.     I  do  not  know  how  much  it  was." 

'  How  much  was  it,  Grace  ?" 

'  One  dollar  and  fifteen  cents,  mamma." 

The  money  was  enclosed,  Mrs.  Wilmot  sealed  the  note 
and  handed  it  to  Grace,  bidding  her  give  it  to  a  servant 

18 


206  GRACE    AND    CLARA. 

and  tell  him  to  take  it  immediately  to  Cecille.  "  But  stay, 
Grace,"  she  added,  laying  her  hand  on  her  arm  and  look, 
ing  into  her  face,  "  you  owe  her  nothing  ?" 

"  No,  mamma — nothing,"  said  Grace,  meeting  her  mo- 
ther's  eye  fully. 

"  God  bless  you,  my  child,  for  saving  me  that  pain.  I 
can  wear  your  bracelet,  Grace,  with  pleasure,  for  it  has 
cost  no  one  sorrow  ;  but  this  locket,  Clara, — you  must  re 
ceive  it  again,  for  I  cannot  wear  it." 

Mrs.  Wilmot,  while  she  was  speaking,  had  taken  the 
bracelet  from  her  arm,  and  severing  with  a  small  penknife 
the  silk  which  fastened  the  locket,  replaced  the  bracelet  on 
her  wrist,  confining  it  with  a  pin,  and  approaching  Clara, 
laid  the  locket  on  her  lap. 

This  was  the  deepest  humiliation,  the  severest  punish 
ment  that  could  have  been  inflicted  on  poor  Clara. 

She  started  up,  flinging  the  now  unvalued  locket  on  the 
floor,  and  falling  on  her  knees,  clasped  Mrs.  Wilmot's  hand, 
exclaiming,  "  Oh,  mamma  Wilmot !  forgive  me,  and  love 
me  again." 

Mrs.  Wilmot  seated  herself,  and  raising  Clara,  said,  "  I 
do  forgive  you,  my  child,  and  it  is  because  I  love  you,  Cla 
ra,  that  I  am  so  deeply  pained  by  your  doing  wrong ;  but 
I  must  see  some  effort  to  amend — some  proof  that  you  have 
learned  to  regard  what  belongs  to  others,  before  I  can  again 
confide  in  you.  I  will  give  you  an  opportunity  of  recover 
ing  rny  confidence.  You  are  now  in  my  debt  to  the  amount 
of  one  month's  payment  of  Cecille,  for  I  will  return  to 
Grace  the  money  which  she  lent  you.  When,  by  economy 
and  self-denial,  you  have  paid  this  debt,'  I  shall  think  that 
you  have  learned  that  you  have  no  right  to  gratify  even 
your  amiable  and  generous  feelings  at  the  expense  of  an 
other — that  you  have  learned  to  be  just  be  fore  you  are  gen- 
erous, — and  then,  Clara,  I  shall  again  confide  in  you  as  well 
as  love  you.  But  remember,  it  must  be  by  economy  and 
self-denial,  not  by  any  present  from  your  father  or  any  in 
crease  of  your  allowance.  When  this  task  is  accomplished, 
give  me  back  the  locket,  and  I  will  wear  it,  with  both  pleas 
ure  and  pride.  Till  then,  you  must  wear  it  yourself,  Cla 
ra.  It  may  be  useful  to  you  by  reminding  you  of  your 
task  and  the  reward  of  your  success." 

Clara  wept — but  more  gently.    There  was  now  hope  be- 


GRACE  AND  CLARA.  207 


fore  her,  and  when  Mrs.  Wilmot  kissed  her  and  hade  her 
good-night,  though  she  was  sad  and  humbled,  she  was  more 
composed  than  she  had  been  since  telling  Cecille  that  she 
could  not  pay  her.  Her  fault  had  now  been  told — there 
was  nothing  to  conceal,  and  this  would  have  made  her  feel 
far  happier  than  she  had  done,  even  had  her  punishment 
been  much  more  severe  than  it  was. 

It  must  have  been  very  mortifying  to  Clara  to  wear  the 
locket  herself  before  those  who  knew  for  what  purpose  she 
had  bought  it ;  but  so  anxious  was  she  to  regain  her  mam 
ma  Wilmot's  good  opinion  by  compliance  with  her  wishes, 
that  she  appeared  at  breakfast  the  next  morning  with  it  on 
her  wrist  sewed  to  a  piece  of  riband.  She  looked  very  un 
like  the  lively  and  high-spirited  Clara,  for  she  was  silent, 
and  if  others  spoke  to  her,  while  answering  them,  she  col 
ored  and  seemed  abashed. 

Mrs.  Wilmot  had  prepared  a  parting  present  for  each  of 
the  children — for  the  four  youngest,  books,  for  Grace  a  very 
handsome  paint-box,  and  for  Clara,  a  work-box  with  many 
colored  silks  for  her  embroidery.  After  breakfast,  calling 
them  to  her  own  room,  she  delivered  these  presents  to  them, 
commencing  with  the  youngest.  To  all  except  Clara  she 
said,  that  they  were  premiums  or  rewards  for  their  good 
conduct.  To  Clara  she  said,  the  box  was  a  mark  of  her 
affection  and  her  approval  of  her  as  a  scholar.  Clara  felt 
this  distinction,  and  stood  still  without  attempting  to  take 
her  box. 

"Why  do  you  not  take  it,  Clara?"  asked  Mrs.  Wilmot. 

She  burst  into  tears  as  she  replied,  "  I  do  not  want  it, 
mamma  Wilmot,  till  you  can  love  me  just  as  well  as  you 
used  to  do." 

"  I  do  love  you,  my  dear  Clara,  just  as  well  as  ever," 
said  Mrs.  Wilmot,  kissing  her ;  "  but  I  will  keep  the  box, 
since  you  wish  it,  until  I  can  restore  to  you  my  full  esteem 
and  confidence,  and  then  we  will  exchange  gifts/'  touching 
the  locket  with  her  finger. 

In  an  hour  after  this  scene,  we  had  said  "  good-by"  to 
each  other,  and  were  travelling  on  our  different  roads. 


208  GRACE    AND   CLARA. 


CHAPTER   XIII. 

THE    REWARD. 

MRS.  WILMOT  was  with  me  three  weeks,  and  then  re 
turned  home  to  prepare  for  receiving  her  children  again.  It 
was  from  a  letter  of  hers  that  I  learned  what  I  am  now  go 
ing  to  tell  you. 

Clara  returned  wearing  the  locket.  Did  you  ever  read 
a  fairy  tale  in  which  a  young  prince  is  said  to  have  been 
presented  with  a  ring  that  pricked  his  finger  whenever  he 
was  in  danger  of  doing  wrong  ?  Clara's  locket  was  to  her 
what  this  ring  was  to  the  young  prince.  Whenever  she  was 
about  to  spend  money  either  on  her  own  fancies  or  the  fan 
cies  of  others,  it  would  remind  her  that  till  her  debt  was 
paid,  the  money  in  her  purse  was  not  hers,  and  that  to  be 
truly  generous,  she  must  first  be  just.  A  month  passed,  and 
she  took  to  Mrs.  Wilmot  nearly  two  dollars,  which  was  all 
that  remained  of  her  pocket-money  after  paying  Cecille. 
Mrs.  Wilmot  praised  her  for  the  effort  she  had  made  to  do 
rightly,  and  Clara  was  almost  happy.  Another  month  went  by. 

Cecille  came  to  give  her  morning  lesson,  and  immediate 
ly  after  it,  Clara  and  Grace  appeared  at  the  door  of  the 
room  in  which  Mrs.  Wilmot  was  seated. 

"  Come  in,  my  children,"  she  said  very  pleasantly,  for 
she  thought  she  knew  their  errand. 

They  walked  up  to  her.  Clara  paid  her  debt  even  to 
the  last  penny. 

"  Now,  mamma  Wilmot,"  said  she,  when  it  had  been  re 
ceived,  "  can  you  confide  in  me  again  ?" 

"  Yes,  Clara,  fully,  entirely,  far  more  than  before  you 
had  ever  made  it  necessary  that  I  should  try  you  as  I  have 
done.  Before  that  trial  I  hoped  that  you  would  persevere 
in  doing  right  at  the  expense  of  some  pain  to  yourself,  / 
am  now  sure  that  you  will.  I  always  knew  that  you  had  right 
feelings,  Clara,  and  I  loved  you  for  them  ;  I  now  know  that 
you  have  right  principles,  and  honor  you  for  them.  Why 
do  you  smile,  Grace  ?" 

"  Because  it  seems  so  strange,  mamma,  that  you  should 
talk  of  honoring  a  little  girl  like  Clara." 


GRACE    AND    CLARA.  209 

"A  little  girl,  Grace,  who  resists  the  temptation  to  do 
wrong  and  steadily  perseveres  in  doing  right,  is  as  deserv 
ing  of  honor  as  any  one,  and  I  repeat  that  I  honor  Clara." 

Tears  stood  in  Clara's  eyes,  and  her  cheeks  were  flushed 
with  emotion. 

"  Then,  mamma  Wilmot,  you  will  not  be  ashamed  to 
wear  the  locket?" 

"  No,  my  loye,  I  shall  be  proud  to  wear  it." 

Clara  took  something  from  Grace,  saying,  "  You  must  let 
me  put  it  on,  Grace." 

"  But  you  must  first  sew  it  to  my  bracelet,"  said  Mrs. 
Wilmot,  taking  off  that  which  Grace  had  woven  and  which 
she  wore  tied  with  a  piece  of  riband'. 

"  No,"  said  Clara,  "  here  is  the  bracelet  as  well  as  the 
locket,"  and  she  produced  a  very  handsome  hair  bracelet, 
fastened  to  the  locket  with  small  gold  rings,  and  clasped  it 
with  a  most  triumphant  air  on  Mrs.  Wilmot's  wrist. 

"  You  did  not  weave  this,  Grace." 

"  No,  mamma,  Cecille  wove  it,  and  I  paid  her  for  it  just 
what  the  jeweller  pays  her,  and  then  I  got  Mr.  Brenner  to 
put  it  on  the  locket,  and  yet  I  have  some  of  the  money  left 
that  I  have  saved  up  these  two  months." 

"  Why,  have  you  been  saving  too  ?" 

"  Yes,  mamma,  Clara  would  not  let  me  spend  my  money 
on  her,  because  she  said  you  told  her  she  must  practise 
self-denial,  and  it  would  not  be  self-denial  if  I  gave  her 
what  she  wanted." 

"  That  was  being  a  little  extravagant  in  your  under 
standing  of  what  I  meant,  Clara ;  I  only  intended  that  you 
should  be  self-denying  in  the  use  of  your  own  money." 

"  Was  I  wrong  to  refuse  Grace  ?"  asked  Clara  anxiously. 

"No,  my  dear — not  wrong.  It  was  more  than  I  de 
manded  of  you,  but  with  your  understanding  of  my  words, 
it  was  quite  right." 

"But,  mamma,"  said  Grace,  a  little  impatiently,  "I  was 
going  to  tell  you  that  Clara  and  I  both  have  some  money 
left,  and  now  that  we  see  how  much  we  can  save,  we 
thought — that  is,  we  wanted  to  ask  you  whether  we  could 
not  do  some  good  with  it." 

Mrs.  Wilmot  smiled. 

"  Don't  laugh  at  us,  mamma :  it  is  not  very  foolish — 
is  it?" 

18* 


210  GRACE    AND    CLARA. 

"  Foolish,  my  child  ! — it  is  very  wise  ;  and  if  I  smiled, 
it  was  with  pleasure  that  my  children  should  have  had  such 
a  thought.  This  is  being  truly  generous.  Older  people 
than  you  sometimes  make  the  mistake  of  calling  those  gen 
erous  who  value  money  so  little  that  they  throw  it  away 
without  thought  or  care ;  but  the  truly  generous  value  it 
much,  because  they  know  that  it  can  buy  clothing  for  the 
naked,  and  food  for  the  starving.  What  they  so  value, 
they  can  neither  keep  from  those  to  whom  it  is  due,  nor 
throw  away  on  foolish  trifles.  So,  you  see,  the  truly  gen 
erous  are  just  and  economical.  But  what  good  have  you 
thought  of  doing  first  with  your  money  ?" 

Clara  now  spoke :  "  We  thought  first  we  would  try  to 
get  some  good  clothes  for  the  Sandfords,  that  they  may  go 
to  Sunday  School." 

The  Sandfords  were  the  three  little  girls  whom  Clara 
and  Grace  taught.  I  cannot  repeat  to  you  all  that  Mrs. 
Wilmot  said  in  reply  to  this  proposal,  but  I  can  tell  you 
what  she  did.  She  went  with  the  girls  to  make  their  pur 
chases,  showed  them  how  to  lay  out  their  money  most  ad 
vantageously  for  their  little  pupils,  cut  out  the  garments  for 
them  when  the  cloth  was  brought  home,  and  directed  them 
how  to  make  them.  In  this  work  Martha  and  Lucy,  Kate 
and  Emma  assisted — so  that  their  kindly  and  generous  feel 
ings  were  awakened,  and  they  too  began  to  save  from  their 
own  selfish  gratifications  to  give  to  those  who  were  in  want. 

Mrs.  Wilmot  now  takes  the  children  with  her  when  she 
goes  to  visit  the  sick  and  the  poor  around  her,  and  in  these 
visits  they  often  find  some  object  for  their  charity.  Some 
times  it  is  an  old  woman  who  needs  a  flannel  wrapper — 
sometimes,  a  child  who  is  walking  on  snow  and  ice  with 
out  shoes.  These  they  would  once,  perhaps,  have  passed 
without  notice  ;  but  now  they  do,  what  we  all  should  do— 
they  look  out  for  opportunities  to  do  good. 


GRACE    AND    CLARA.  211 

CHAPTER    XIV. 

THE    RETURN. 

IN  the  commencement  of  this  book,  I  told  you  that  I  was 
again  at  Hazel  Grove.  Again  Harriet  and  I  arrived  in 
October,  when  the  woods  were  bright  with  many  colors. 
We  were  received  with  even  more  joy  than  on  our  first  visit, 
and  though  some  weeks  have  passed  since  I  began  to  tell 
you  of  my  young  acquaintances  here,  they  seem  quite  as 
unwilling  to  hear  of  my  return  home  as  I  then  told  you 
they  were. 

And  I  have  seen  Cecille  too,  and  her  good  grandmother. 
They  are  still  at  the  widow  Daly's  cottage,  but  times  are 
greatly  changed  with  them  since  we  parted.  Cecille  is  no 
longer  a  teacher  for  money — though  she  is  never  so  well 
pleased  as  when  she  can  gratify  her  companions  by  im 
parting  to  them  some  of  her  own  accomplishments.  She 
assists  too  in  all  their  works  of  charity,  and  seems  to  think 
the  poor  have  double  claims  on  her  because  she  knows 
what  their  trials  are.  She  will  leave  us  ere  long,  for  Mr. 
L'Estrange  having  regained  his  estate,  is  preparing  his 
home  in  France  for  the  return  of  his  mother  and  daughter, 
and  will  come  for  them  in  the  Spring.  Cecille  will,  I  am 
sure,  part  with  us  with  pain  ;  yet  she  will  soon  forget  her 
pain  in  her  grandmother's  pleasure — and  in  the  midst  of 
our  sorrow,  we  shall  none  of  us,  I  hope,  be  too  selfish  to 
rejoice  in  her  prosperity. 

Mrs.  Wilmot's  children  will  all  spend  their  holidays  at 
Hazel  Grove  this  year.  I  have  promised  to  remain  with 
them  during  that  time,  and  Madame  L'Estrange  and  Cecille 
are  to  be  with  us  on  Christmas  day.-  We  are  anticipating 
great  enjoyment  on  that  day.  I  should  like  to  be  able  to 
tell  you  how  it  passes  ;  but  that  I  must  do  in  another  book, 
— for  if  I  keep  this  till  then,  it  will  be  too  late  to  bring  you 
Aunt  Kitty's  Merry  Christmas. 

THE  END. 


ELLEN  LESLIE: 


OR, 


THE  REWARD  OF  SELF-CONTROL, 


ELLEN  LESLIE; 

OR, 

THE  REWARD  OF  SELF-CONTROL. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE    BIRTH-DAY    PAETY. 

"  WHO  will  be  invited  to  your  party  ?"  asked  Harriet  of 
Anna  Melville,  the  eldest  daughter  of  my  old  friends,  Col. 
and  Mrs.  Melville,  who  resided  in  the  town  of  H.,  and  to 
whom  I  had  been  making  a  visit  of  some  weeks. 

Anna  was  a  lively  good-tempered  girl,  who  wanted  only 
two  days  of  being  twelve  years  old.  For  the  last  week,  she 
had  scarcely  been  able  to  speak  of  any  thing  but  the  party 
which  was  to  be  given  on  her  birth-day,  and  to  which  Har 
riet's  question  referred. 

"  Who  ?"  said  Anna  in  reply  ;  "  oh,  all  the  girls  I  know. 
Let  me  see — there  are  Helen  Lamar,  and  Lucy  Liston,  and 
Mary  and  Ellen  Leslie — " 

"  Ellen  Leslie,"  exclaimed  Emma,  a  younger  sister  of 
Anna  who  stood  near  her  listening,  "  Ellen  Leslie — why, 
Anna,  you  surely  will  not  ask  her.  You  know  she  will 
get  into  a  passion  with  somebody  before  the  evening  is  over  ; 
or  even  if  she  should  not,  we  shall  all  be  so  much  afraid  of 
offending  her  that  there  will  be  no  fun." 

"  But,  Emma,  if  we  do  not  ask  Ellen,  Mary  will  not 
come,  and  you  know  none  of  us  would  enjoy  ourselves  half 
so  much  if  Mary  were  not  here." 

"  No,  we  should  not ;  but  at  any  rate  I  will  take  care 
not  to  bring  out  my  handsome  doll  and  my  best  teacups, 
for  if  Miss  Ellen  get  angry,  she  will  not  mind  breaking 
them." 

Having  overheard  this  dialogue,  I  felt  no  little  curiosity 


216  ELLEN    LESLIE. 


to  see  the  two  sisters  who  were  so  differently  regarded  by 
their  young  friends. 

The  two  days  passed  away  slowly  enough  to  the  expecting 
children  ;  but  they  did  pass,  and  the  birth-day  arrived.  All 
was  bustle  and  preparation  at  Col.  Melville's.  Anna  su 
perintended  and  directed  and  hurried  every  one,  and  was 
dressed  herself  an  hour  before  the  time  appointed  for  her  visit- 
ers.  At  length,  just  as  she  had  become  weary  of  watching  for 
them,  and  was  beginning  to  express  her  opinion  that  no  one 
was  coming,  a  group  was  seen  approaching.  Then  came 
another  and  another,  till  twenty  young  girls,  neatly  dressed, 
and  with  smiling,  happy  faces,  were  collected.  Among  the 
latest  arrivals  were  Mary  and  Ellen  Leslie.  I  had  seen 
them  from  the  windows  before  they  entered  the  house,  and 
was  much  pleased  with  their  appearance.  They  wore  very 
simple  white  dresses,  and  their  hair  fell  in  natural  ringlets 
over  their  shoulders,  unconfined  and  without  ornament  of 
any  kind.  As  they  entered  the  parlor,  all  the  girls  went  for 
ward  to  welcome  them  ;  but  it  was  easy  to  see  that  the 
gladness  which  all  expressed  was  more  for  Mary  than  for 
Ellen — their  greetings  being  made  something  in  this  way  : 

"  Oh,  Mary  !  I  am  so  delighted  to  see  you — and  Ellen 
too!" 

But  for  the  conversation  between  Anna  and  Emma  Mel 
ville  which  I  had  overheard,  I  should  not  have  known  how 
to  account  for  this  difference,  for  Ellen  was  not  at  all  less 
pleasing  in  appearance  than  Mary.  Indeed  she  would  have 
impressed  many  persons  more  agreeably,  for  Mary's  coun 
tenance,  though  very  gentle,  was  very  serious,  while  El 
len's  was  gay  and  animated. 

All  was  pleasantness  in  the  little  party  for  about  an  hour, 
when  the  children  were  called  to  tea.  I  did  not  go  to  the  table 
till  they  were  seated.  When  I  did,  I  saw  that  there  was  a 
cloud  on  Ellen  Leslie's  face,  but  what  had  caused  it  I  could 
not  discover.  When  tea  was  over,  the  various  entertain 
ments  of  the  evening  commenced.  On  one  side  of  the  par 
lor,  around  a  table,  was  seated  a  group  of  girls  playing 
what  they  called  an  historical  game — that  is,  amusing  them 
selves  with  cards  containing  questions  and  answers  on  his 
torical  subjects.  In  this  game,  the  questions  were  held  by 
one  person,  and  the  cards  containing  the  answers  were  dis 
tributed  equally  among  the  rest  of  the  players.  As  a  ques- 


ELLEN    LESLIE.  217 


tion  was  asked,  any  girl  who  found  among  her  cards  an 
answer  which  seemed  to  her  the  correct  one,  read  it. 
Sometimes  two  or  three  would  begin  to  read  together,  and 
so  long  as  they  could  bear  to  be  laughed  at  without  losing 
their  tempers,  those  who  made  the  greatest  mistakes,  per 
haps  contributed  most  to  the  merriment  of  the  party.  At 
this  game  about  eight  or  ten  girls  were  engaged.  A  few 
others  amused  themselves  with  dissected  maps,  and  the  rest 
gathered  together  in  one  corner  of  the  room  with  Emma's 
cups  and  saucers,  baby-house  and  doll. 

From  the  brightening  up  of  Ellen  Leslie's  countenance 
when  the  historical  cards  were  produced,  and  her  evident 
desire  to  make  one  in  that  game,  I  had  felt  quite  sure  that 
she  was  well  acquainted  with  its  subjects,  and  so  it  proved. 
For  some  time  her  answers  were  ready  and  correct,  while 
her  laugh  was  first  and  loudest  at  the  blunders  made  by 
others.  At  length,  the  questions  seemed  to  relate  to  a  portion 
of  history  on  which  Ellen  was  not  so  much  at  home,  and 
once  and  again  her  answer  was  followed  by  a  laugh.  In 
the  first  laugh  which  she  thus  excited  Ellen  made  a  feeble 
effort  to  join,  but  it  was  very  feeble.  At  the  second,  her 
face  flushed,  she  looked  gloomily  down,  and  from  that  time, 
though  she  sat  with  the  cards  in  her  hands,  she  did  not  an 
swer  a  question  or  take  any  part  in  the  game.  After  a 
while  some  wonder  was  expressed  that  no  answers  could  be 
found  to  several  of  the  questions.  All  around  the  table 
carefully  examined  their  cards  and  declared  they  did  not 
have  them,  except  Ellen — she  remained  silent,  and  held  her 
cards  without  looking  at  them. 

"  Ellen,  perhaps  you  have  them,"  said  Anna  Melville. 

"  You  can  see,"  said  Ellen,  laying  her  cards  down  before 
Anna. 

"  Oh  no !"  said  Anna  quickly,  "  you  look  at  them  your 
self." 

"  I  do  not  suppose  I  should  know  the  answers  if  I  saw 
them,"  said  Ellen  sulkily  ;  "  and  besides,  I  am  tired  play 
ing,"  and  she  rose  from  the  table.  As  she  moved  off  to  a 
distant  part  of  the  room  and  seated  herself  alone,  I  glanced 
at  Mary  and  saw  her  eyes  fixed  on  her  sister  with  such  an 
expression  of  sorrowing  tenderness,  that  for  her  sake  I  de 
termined  to  try  whether  I  could  not  restore  Ellen  to  a  hap 
pier  mood.  I  approached  her  with  a  book  of  prints,  and  seat- 
19 


218  ELLEN    LESLIE. 


ing  myself  near  her,  drew  a  stand  towards  us  and  invited 
her  to  look  at  them  with  me.  She  looked  as  if  she  would 
like  to  refuse,  but  ashamed  probably  to  do  this  to  one  so 
much  older  than  herself,  she  contented  herself  with  remain 
ing  sulkily  silent,  scarcely  glancing  at  first  at  the  pictures 
as  I  turned  the  leaves  and  announced  the  different  subjects. 
At  length,  however,  some  anecdote  I  told  attracted  her  at 
tention.  She  asked  a  question — she  smiled — she  laughed 
aloud.  Again  I  turned  my  eyes  upon  Mary  Leslie.  She 
was  looking  at  me  with  a  countenance  so  full  of  thankful 
ness  and  lit  up  with  so  sweet  a  smile,  that  I  no  longer  won 
dered  at  her  young  companions  loving  her  so  tenderly. 


CHAPTER   II. 

THE    SISTERS. 

THE  next  day  an  old  gentleman,  a  Mr.  Villars,  dined  at 
Mr.  Melville's.  Mr.  Villars  was  a  widower.  His  wife 
had  been  a  sister  of  Mrs.  Leslie,  the  mother  of  Mary  and 
Ellen.  She  had  been  long  dead,  but.  having  never  married 
again,  he  had  remained  much  attached  to  her  family,  and 
having  had  no  children  of  his  own,  he  had  always  taken  a 
deep  interest  in  Mary  and  Ellen,  petting  them  quite  as 
much  and  perhaps  scolding  them  a  little  more  than  their 
father.  He  was  a  favorite  with  children  generally,  for  he 
interested  himself  in  their  amusements  and  pursuits. 

"  And  so,  Miss  Anna,"  said  he,  as  he  entered  the  parlor 
in  which  we  were  sitting  after  dinner,  "  you  had  a  party 
last  night.  Pray,  why  was  not  I  invited  ?  Mary  Leslie 
made  me  quite  envious,  I  assure  you,  by  telling  me  of  the 
enjoyment  you  had." 

"  And  what  did  Ellen  say  ?"  asked  the  talkative  and 
thoughtless  Emma  Melville. 

"  Oh,  Ellen  !  I  never  mind  her  reports,  for  if  they  are  not 
agreeable,  I  always  suppose  something  has  happened  to  put 
her  out  of  temper.  Poor  child  !  poor  child  !" 

This  exclamation  was  made  with  deep  feeling,  and  we 
were  all  grave  and  silent  till  Mr.  Villars,  turning  to  me, 


ELLEN    LESLIE.  219 


said,  "  I  must  not  let  you,  ma'am,  who  are  a  stranger  to  her, 
suppose  that  our  little  Ellen  has  no  good  in  her.  She  is,  I 
assure  you,  a  very  affectionate  child,  and  though  she  is  so 
ready  to  fancy  herself  neglected  or  ill  treated,  and  so  quick 
to  resent  it,  she  is  very  grateful  for  kindness,  and  you  have 
quite  won  her  heart  by  your  efforts  to  amuse  her  last  even- 
ing." 

"  I  am  pleased,"  I  replied,  "  to  have  made  so  agreeable 
an  impression,  but  I  was  repaid  for  my  efforts  by  the  inter 
est  she  excited.  I  believe  what  you  say,  sir,  that  she  is  af 
fectionate  and  grateful — indeed,  that  her  feelings  are  as 
quick  as  her  temper.  Forgive  me  if  I  add,  that  it  seems  to 
me  it  must  be  in  some  degree  the  fault  of  those  to  whom 
her  education  has  been  confided,  that,  with  such  qualities, 
she  is  not  more  pleasing  and  amiable." 

"  You  are  right,  ma'am,  it  is  their  fault.  I  have  done 
my  best  to  correct  it,  but  all  in  vain.  She  has  been  spoiled 
from  her  very  birth,  for  her  mother's  health  had  even  then 
begun  to  fail,  and  she  was  quite  unequal  to  the  management 
of  so  spirited  a  child.  Ellen  was  but  four  years  old  when 
that  gentle  mother  died,  Mary  was  seven — " 

"  Is  it  possible,"  said  I,  interrupting  him  in  my  surprise, 
"  that  there  is  so  much  difference  in  their  ages  ?" 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  "  three  years.  Mary  is  now  thir 
teen,  though  she  does  not  look  like  it,  and  Ellen  is  only  ten. 
Well,  as  I  was  about  to  tell  you,  Mary  at  seven  was  a  se 
date,  quiet,  thoughtful  child,  and  Mrs.  Leslie,  when  she  be 
came  sensible  that  she  could  not  live  long,  used  to  talk  much 
to  her  of  Ellen's  claims  on  her  kindness,  and  dependence 
upon  her  tenderness,  when  she  should  be  gone  from  them. 
She  taught  her  to  pray  morning  and  evening  that  God  would 
make  her  gentle  and  kind  to  her  little  sister,  as  her  mother 
had  been  to  them  both.  Mary,  I  am  sure,  has  never  for 
gotten  or  omitted  that  prayer." 

"  Poor  Mary  !"  said  I,  "  these  were  very  sad  thoughts 
and  heavy  cares  for  one  so  young." 

"  So  they  were,  ma'am,  and  so  I  once  ventured  to  tell 
Mrs.  Leslie.  Never  shall  I  forget  her  reply.  '  Ah,  brother  !' 
said  she — she  had  always  called  me  brother  from  the  time  of 
my  marriage  with  her  sister — '  ah,  brother  !  a  mother,  and  a 
mother  near  death,  sees  far  more  clearly  the  dangers  of  her 
children  than  any  other  can  do.  My  gentle  Mary  has  a 


220  ELLEN    LESLIE. 


strength  of  character  you  little  dream  of,  and  though  never 
very  gay,  she  will  not  long  remain  unreasonably  sad  ;  but 
my  poor  Ellen, — with  a  nature  so  affectionate  that  she 
cannot  be  happy  unless  she  is  loved,  and  a  temper  so  pas 
sionate  that  she  will  often  try  the  forbearance  of  her  best 
friends  almost  beyond  endurance, — how  much  suffering  is 
before  her !  Do  not  blame  me,  if  before  I  go  from  her,  I 
strive  to  make  Mary's  love  for  her  such  as  her  mother's 
would  have  been — such  as  not  even  her  faults  shall  be  able 
to  overcome.  Mary's  path  through  life  will  be  smooth,  she 
must  support  Ellen  through  her  rough  and  thorny  way.'  I 
did  not  feel  that  all  this  was  right,"  continued  Mr.  Villars, 
"  for  I  think  that  every  one  should  bear  the  consequences 
of  their  own  faults ;  but  I  could  not  argue  with  a  dying 
woman,  and  I  comforted  myself  that  all  would  come  right, 
— that  Mary  would  forget  all  this,  and  scold  and  cross  her 
sister,  just  as  other  elder  sisters  do,"  tapping  Anna  Melville 
playfully  on  the  head  as  he  spoke,  "  or  that  Mr.  Leslie 
would  control  her.  But  I  was  mistaken,  it  has  never  come 
right.  Mary,  I  verily  believe,  has  never  crossed  Ellen's 
wishes  in  her  life  ;  and  if  Mr.  Leslie  has  ever  attempted  to 
do  so,  she  has  almost  always  stormed  or  coaxed  him  out  of 
his  design, — more  frequently  stormed,  for  she  has  not  pa 
tience  for  coaxing." 

"  And  how  does  she  get  what  she  wishes  from  you  ?"  asked 
Col.  Melville  with  a  smile,  for  he  knew  that  Mr.  Villars 
was  very  indulgent  to  both  the  children. 

"  Why,  the  cunning  jade,"  said  Mr.  Villars  laughing, 
"  I  will  tell  you  how.  A  long  time  ago  I  repeated  to  her 
Esop's  fable  of  the  sun  and  the  wind,  and  told  her,  Mary 
was  the  sun  and  she  was  the  wind.  Then,  Uncle  Villars, 
said  she,  whenever  I  want  to  make  you  do  any  thing,  I  will 
send  Mary  to  you ;  and  she  has  been  true  to  her  word, — 
she  always  sends  Mary." 

"  And  what  was  the  fable,  Mr.  Villars  ?"  asked  Emma 
Melville. 

"  Why,  that  the  sun  and  the  wind  had  a  great  quarrel 
once  about  which  was  the  strongest,  and  a  traveller  passing 
by  while  the  quarrel  was  at  its  height,  they  agreed  that  it 
should  be  decided  in  favor  of  the  one  which  should  soonest 
get  his  cloak  from  him.  So  the  wind  rose  in  its  might,  and 
blew  and  blew  upon  the  poor  traveller  :  but  all  in  vain  ;  he 


ELLEN    LESLIE.  221 


only  wrapped  his  cloak  more  closely  round  him.  Then  the 
sun  came  out  and  beamed  right  down  upon  the  man  bright 
er  and  brighter,  and  warmer  and  warmer :  but  not  long  ; 
for  the  traveller  was  very  soon  glad  to  throw  off  his  thick, 
heavy  cloak.  So  the  sun  conquered,  as  kindness  and  gen 
tleness,  Miss  Emma,  always  will,  sooner  than  blustering 
and  storming." 

I  saw  little  more  of  Mary  and  Ellen  Leslie  during  this 
visit  to  H.,  and  it  was  more  than  two  years  before  I  return- 
ed  there  again.  When  I  did,  I  found  that  great  changes 
had  taken  place  in  the  situation  of  these  young  girls. 
Their  father  had  been  dead  for  more  than  a  year.  Mr. 
Leslie  was  a  merchant,  and  was  thought  quite  rich  even  by 
his  most  intimate  friends  ;  yet  when  he  died,  and  his  affairs 
were  examined,  it  was  found  that  he  was  poor — so  poor,  that, 
after  his  debts  were  paid,  his  children  would  have  nothing. 
But  Mr.  Villars  it  was  thought  would  provide  for  them. 
.He  did  take  them  to  his  house  for  a  few  months,  till  Mary, 
whose  health  had  become  enfeebled  by  her  close  attention 
to  her  father  during  his  long  illness,  grew  well  and  strong 
again ; — but  then  reports  began  to  be  whispered  about  that 
Mr.  Villars  had  lost  much  of  his  property  through  Mr. 
Leslie — that  he  was  in  debt,  and  could  no  longer  afford  to 
live  as  he  had  done.  Then  it  was  said  that  he  must  give 
up  his  servants,  that  he  must  let  or  sell  his  house  and  go  to 
board  in  some  cheap  country  place.  Mary  and  Ellen  would 
not  go  with  him — he  would  leave  them  in  H.,  for  he  could 
only  pay  their  board — they  must  do  something  for  their  own 
support,  and  that  could  best  be  done  among  their  old  friends. 
Accordingly  when  I  came  to  H.,  I  found  Mr.  Villars  gone, 
his  house  occupied  by  another  family,  and  Mary  and  Ellen 
boarding  with  a  widow  who  lived  in  a  very  plain,  small 
house,  in  one  of  the  humblest  streets  of  H.  Mary,  I  was 
told,  gave  lessons  in  music  to  two  or  three  pupils,  and  grate 
fully  accepted  any  employment  offered  her,  either  of  plain 
sewing,  embroidery,  or  fancy  work.  At  first,  she  had  some 
day  scholars,  and  she  would  probably  have  soon  obtained 
a  large  school,  for  the  children  were  attached  to  her  and 
the  parents  pleased  with  her  success  as  a  teacher,  but  El 
len  had  undertaken  to  assist  her,  and  her  passionate  temper 
so  often  evinced  itself,  that  both  parents  and  children  were 
displeased,  and  the  school  was  soon  broken  up. 
19* 


222  ELLEN    LESLIE. 


"  And  what  does  Ellen  do  ?"  I  asked. 

"  Assist  her  sister  in  the  work  when  she  can,"  replied 
Mrs.  Melville,  from  whom  I  had  heard  these  things.  "  But  I 
fear,"  she  added,  "  that  she  much  more  frequently  hinders 
than  assists  her.  Indeed,  Mary  would  scarce  have  to  con 
tend  with  any  difficulty  but  for  Ellen,  for  many  would  be 
glad  to  have  her  in  their  families,  could  she  be  persuaded 
to  leave  that  little  termagant." 

"  Poor  Ellen !"  said  I,  "  the  bad  name  which  she  con 
tracted  in  childhood  cleaves  to  her,  when  perhaps  she 
may  be  greatly  changed." 

"  Not  if  we  are  to  trust  the  report  of.  Mrs.  Maclean,  with 
whom  they  board.  She  tells  sad  tales  of  Ellen's  irritabil 
ity  and  Mary's  long-suffering.  To  be  sure,  we  are  likely 
to  hear  the  worst  of  the  case  from  her,  for,  though  an  up 
right  woman,  she  is  irritable  herself  and  very  positive,  and 
I  dare  say  she  and  Ellen  have  had  many  quarrels." 

My  first  visit  in  H.  was  to  these  children,  for  children 
they  still  were,  though  thus  thrown  on  the  world  to  provide 
for  themselves,  Mary  being  little  more  than  fifteen  and  El 
len  not  yet  thirteen.  The  room  in  which  I  found  them  was 
small,  but  Mr.  Villars  had  seen  it  comfortably  furnished 
before  he  left  them,  and  it  was  neatly  kept.  Their  cloth 
ing  too  was  comfortable  and  neat,  though  very  plain.  But 
there  was  on  Ellen's  countenance  an  expression  of  sullen 
gloom,  and  on  Mary's,  of  sweet,  yet  sad  resignation,  which 
was  more  distressing  to  me  than  even  an  appearance  of 
want  would  have  been,  because  it  was  a  stronger  evidence 
of  unhappiness.  Poverty  cheerfully  borne  is  but  a  slight 
evil  in  comparison  with  a  repining  temper.  But  I  have 
learned,  since  that  time,  much  more  of  Mary  and  Ellen 
than  was  then  known  to  Mrs.  Melville  or  any  other  person, 
and  I  will  now  tell  their  story  from  the  time  of  their  father's 
death,  without  interrupting  the  narrative  to  explain  to  you 
how  I  heard  this  or  that  particular. 


ELLEN   LESLIE.  223 


CHAPTER  III. 

ORPHANS. 

MARY,  I  have  already  said,  had  nursed  her  father  through 
his  long,  tedious  illness.  She  had  seen  him  grow  weaker 
and  weaker,  and  she  was  therefore  in  some  degree  pre 
pared  to  see  him  die.  But  with  Ellen  it  was  very  differ, 
ent.  Mary  always  tried  to  save  her  pain.  She  would  not 
let  her  spend  much  time  in  the  sick-room ;  and  indeed,  though 
Mr.  Leslie  was  a  very  fond  father,  and  was  always  glad  to 
see  Ellen,  he  never  wished  her  to  remain  long, — for,  if 
she  thought  him  very  ill,  she  would  weep  so  passionately 
that  it  agitated  him,  and  if  she  thought  him  better,  she 
would  be  very  noisy  in  her  gladness.  Then,  if  she  at 
tempted  to  do  any  thing  for  him,  she  would  move  in  such 
a  hurried  manner,  that  it  was  awkwardly  done,  if  she  suc 
ceeded  in  doing  it  at  all.  All  this  proceeded  from  Ellen's 
never  having  learned  in  any  way  to  control  her  feelings.  It 
was  love  for  her  father  which  made  Ellen  weep  or  laugh, 
and  caused  her  to  move  in  haste  when  she  was  told  to  hand 
him  any  thing ;  but  Mary  loved  her  father  quite  as  well  as 
Ellen,  and  when  she  saw  him  suffering,  tears  would  often 
stream  down  her  cheeks,  yet  she  would  keep  down  every 
sound  which  could  call  his  attention  to  her  sorrows.  If 
he  was  more  comfortable,  you  might  tell  it  as  soon  as  you 
entered  the  room  by  the  bright  smile  upon  her  face,  yet 
she  never  disturbed  his  repose  by  loud  talking  and  laugh 
ing,  and  though  delighted  when  called  on  to  serve  him,  she 
knew,  that  really  to  serve  him,  she  must  move  very  quiet 
ly.  This  was  what  is  called  self-control,  and  without  it 
let  me  tell  you,  my  young  friends,  that  however  kind  your 
feelings  may  be,  however  good  your  intentions,  you  will 
never  make  yourselves  either  useful  or  agreeable  to  others. 
Poor  Ellen !  she  had  it  not — she  had  never  learned  to  con 
trol  either  her  temper  or  her  feelings,  and  you  will  see  how 
sadly  she  suffered  in  consequence. 

I  have  told  you  that  Mary,  from  being  much  with  her 


224  ELLEN    LESLIE. 


father,  was  in  some  degree  prepared  for  his  death,  while  to 
Ellen  it  was  quite  unexpected.  I  need  not  tell  you  that 
to  both  of  them  it  was  a  very  sad  event, — the  youngest  of 
you  can  feel  how  very  sorrowful  it  would  be  to  part  with 
the  father  who  has  played  with  and  patted  you,  who  has 
nursed  you  in  sickness,  and  taken  care  of  you  in  health, 
and  been  kind  and  loving  to  you  always, — to  part  with  him, 
not  for  a  day,  or  a  week,  or  a  month,  or  a  year, — but  for 
as  long  as  you  live, — not  to  have  him  go  where,  though 
you  cannot  see  him,  you  may  hear  from  him  and  know  that 
he  is  well  and  happy,  and  still  cares  for  you,  but  to  have 
him  lie  down  in  the  grave,  the  still  grave,  from  which  no 
voice  of  love  can  come  to  you.  But  perhaps,  if  you  were 
obliged  to  part  with  your  father,  you  would  have  a  tender  mo 
ther  left  to  sooth  you  and  take  care  of  you  ;  but  Mary  and  El 
len  Leslie  had  not  this  comfort,  and  when  they  saw  their  father 
carried  out  in  his  coffin,  they  might  have  felt  that,  except  their 
kind  Uncle  Villars,  there  was  no  one  who  would  care  very 
much  if  they  were  laid  alongside  of  him.  As  you  grow  older 
you  will  discover  that  persons  who  grieve  together,who  sorrow 
for  the  same  things,  love  each  other  far  more  dearly  than  those 
who  are  only  glad  together.  I  cannot  very  well  explain 
to  you  why  this  is,  but  we  all  feel  it, — and  Mary  and  Ellen 
Leslie  felt  it,  as  they  lay  the  night  after  the  funeral  folded 
in  each  other's  arms,  helpless,  and  but  for  one  kind  heart, 
friendless  orphans. 

Yet  even  then  poor  Ellen  had  a  grief  which  was  all  her 
own.  "  Oh,  Mary  !  you  were  never  in  a  passion  with  poor 
papa,  and  said  angry  words  to  him  and  grieved  him.  Oh, 
dear  Mary  !  do  you  think  he  remembers  them  now  ?" 

Dear  children  who  read  this  little  book,  hear  me  and  for 
get  not  my  words, — this  is  the  bitterest  grief  of  all,  to  feel 
that  you  have  given  pain  to  that  kind  heart  which  is  gone 
from  you,  which  never  can  come  back  to  hear  your  repent 
ance  or  forgive  your  injustice.  Save  yourself  from  such 
sorrow  by  kindness  and  gentleness  to  your  friends,  and  obe 
dience  to  your  parents  while  they  are  with  you. 

Mr.  Villars  soon  removed  these  children  from  their  now 
sad  home  to  his  smaller  and  humbler,  but  more  cheerful  res 
idence..  Mr.  Villars  had  never  been  engaged  in  any  business. 
His  property  was  small,  and  while  his  wealthier  friend  and 
brother-in-law,  Mr.  Leslie,  had  surrounded  his  family  with 


ELLEN    LESLIE.  225 


elegancies  and  luxuries,  he  had  been  obliged  to  content 
himself  with  comforts.  I  say  obliged  to  content  himself,  but 
I  do  not  know  that  Mr.  Villars  ever  desired  more.  Indeed, 
I  should  have  thought  him  an  unreasonable  man  if  he  had, 
— every  thing  around  him  was  so  neat,  so  perfectly  com 
fortable,  and  all  was  kept  in  order  so  quietly  by  the  very 
best  old  housekeeper  in  the  country,  who  had  lived  with 
him  ever  since  his  wife's  death,  and  who  thoroughly  under 
stood  his  ways.  It  was  no  slight  praise  to  good  old  Mrs. 
Merrill,  his  housekeeper,  to  say  that  she  understood  Mr. 
Villars'  ways,  for  I  assure  you  they  were  by  no  means  so 
easy  to  understand  as  those  of  most  people.  Mr.  Villars 
had  lived  so  long  alone,  with  nobody's  tastes  to  consult  but 
his  own,  that  he  had  acquired  all  the  set  habits  which  peo 
ple  generally  suppose  to  belong  only  to  an  old  bachelor. 
He  was  thought  very  whimsical,  and  certainly  often  did 
things  which  to  the  rest  of  the  world  seemed  very  odd  ;  and 
though,  when  he  gave  his  reasons,  every  one  was  compelled 
to  acknowledge  them  to  be  very  good,  they  were  often  such 
as  would  have  been  thought  of  by  few  but  himself.  Mrs. 
Merrill  was  a  very  kind  woman,  and  received  Mary  and  El 
len  with  great  tenderness,  but  she  too  had  'her  oddities  as 
well  as  Mr.  Villars.  Like  most  persons  who  have  had  little  to 
do  with  children,  she  was  constantly  afraid  of  their  getting 
into  some  trouble  or  mischief,  and  she  watched  these  girls, 
the  youngest  of  whom  was  then  twelve  years  old,  with  as 
much  care  as  if  they  were  only  four  or  five.  Even  Mary  felt 
this  unusual  degree  of  attention  to  be  an  unpleasant  re 
straint,  but  to  poor  Ellen,  who  had  all  her  life  done  just  as 
she  pleased,  it  was  perfectly  intolerable,  and  she  could  not 
restrain  the  expression  of  her  impatience  under  it. 

"  Be  very  careful  of  the  light,  Miss  Mary,  and  do  not  put 
it  so  near  the  curtains,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Merrill,  on  the 
second  evening  that  Mary  and  Ellen  Leslie  had  passed  in 
their  new  home,  as  she  was  giving  them  their  night  lamp, 
after  they  had  said  good- night  to  their  uncle. 

"  I  will  be  very  careful,  Mrs.  Merrill,"  said  Mary  with  a 
smile. 

"  And  Miss  Ellen,  I  am  busy  just  now  and  cannot  go  with 
you  to  your  room,  but  your  sister  will  untie  your  clothes, 
I  dare  say,  if  you  ask  her  kindly,  and  I  will  come  by-and- 
by,  and  see  that  they  are  nicely  folded  and  put  away." 


226  ELLEN    LESLIE. 


"I  always  fold  my  clothes  myself,"  was  the  somewhat 
ungracious  reply  to  the  good  woman's  well-meant  offer. 

As  the  sisters  entered  their  room  Ellen  shot  the  bolt  of 
her  door,  exclaiming,  "  There,  we  are  safe  from  that  teasing 
Mrs.  Merrill !" 

"  Oh,  Ellen  !  she  is  very  kind,  and  we  must  not  forget, 
my  dear  sister,  that  there  are  not  many  in  the  world  now, 
who  take  interest  enough  in  us  to  care  what  we  do."  Ellen 
was  softened  and  went  tearfully  to  bed.  Mary  soon  fol 
lowed  her,  and  they  were  just  comfortably  arranged  when 
some  one  tried  to  enter,  and  finding  the  door  bolted,  tapped. 

"  Who  is  that  ?"  exclaimed  Ellen  impatiently. 

"  It  is  only  I,  Miss  Ellen,"  answered  Mrs.  Merrill,  "  I 
have  come  to  put  the  light  out  and  cover  you  up  nicely." 

"  The  light  is  out  and  we  are  covered,"  was  the  peevish 
reply  which  arose  above  Mary's  "  Thank  you,  Mrs.  Merrill, 
we  are  in  bed  already." 

"  Oh,  Ellen  !  how  could  you  speak  so  angrily,  and  hurt 
the  kind  old  woman's  feelings."  Ellen  could  not  bear  to 
hurt  anybody's  feelings,  and  the  next  moment  she  was  out 
of  bed,  had  unbolted  the  door,  and  was  running  barefooted 
through  the  hall,  calling  to  Mrs.  Merrill.  Mrs.  Merrill  was 
half  way  down  stairs,  but  she  came  back,  hurried  and 
alarmed,  exclaiming  breathlessly,  "  What  is  the  matter,  my 
dear,  what  is  the  matter  ?" 

"  Nothing,  ma'am,"  said  Ellen  very  respectfully  and 
penitently,  "  except  that  Mary  said  that  I  had  hurt  your 
feelings,  and  I  am  very  sorry  for  it.  I  only  meant  to  say 
we  were  in  bed  already." 

"  Hurt  my  feelings — oh  dear,  no !  poor  child  !  and  did 
she  make  you  get  up  for  that,"  putting  her  hand  kindly 
on  Ellen's  head  as  she  spoke — "  oh  no !  you  did  not  hurt 
my  feelings — I  never  mind  what  children  say." 

Ellen  flirted  off  and  jumped  into  bed  more  angry  than  ever, 
that  Mrs.  Merrill  should  have  thought  Mary  had  made  her 
get  up  to  speak  to  her,  and  that  she  should  think  her  of  so 
little  consequence  as  not  to  mind  what  she  said. 


ELLEN    LESLIE.  227 


CHAPTER     IV. 

AN   UNRULY   SPIRIT. 

WE  cannot  give  an  account  of  half  the  disputes  between 
Mrs.  Merrill  and  Ellen  which  were  generally  reported  to 
Mr.  Villars  by  both  parties,  until  he  was  ready  to  go  any 
where  from  his  hitherto  quiet  home,  in  search  of  peace. 
And  yet,  when  the  difficulties  in  which  he  had  become  in 
volved  through  Mr.  Leslie  began  first  to  be  perceived,  and 
Mr.  Villars  to  fear  that  he  must  leave  his  home,  it  seemed 
dearer  to  him  than  ever.  Besides,  he  would  say  to  him 
self,  as  he  sat  thinking  over  the  threatened  changes — What 
is  to  become  of  these  poor  children — and  my  old  servants 
— and  Mrs.  Merrill — good  Mrs.  Merrill — who,  I  am  sure, 
never  expected  to  leave  me,  and  is  now  too  old  to  look  out 
new  friends  ?  Distressed  by  such  thoughts,  it  is  no  wonder 
if  Mr.  Villars  looked  sad,  and  sat  silent  for  hours  together, 
sometimes  looking  out  of  a  window  sometimes  turning  his 
eyes  upon  a  book  which  he  generally  held  in  his  hand,  as  an 
excuse  for  not  talking  ;  though  it  was  easy  to  see  that  he 
was  not  reading, — or  if  he  was,  it  must  be  the  same  page,  over 
and  over  again,  as  he  never  turned  a  leaf.  Mary  had  no 
ticed  all  this,  and  it  grieved  her  greatly,  for  except  Ellen,  there 
was  no  one  now  in  the  world  whom  she  loved  half  so  well  as 
her  Uncle  Villars.  She  tried  at  first  to  amuse  him  by  talking 
to  him ;  but  finding  that,  though  he  always  answered  her  kind- 
ly,  he  would  at  such  times  soon  leave  the  parlor  where  they 
were  seated,  and  go,  either  to  his  own  room  or  to  the  library, 
she  determined  not  again  to  disturb  him  when  he  seemed  so 
thoughtful.  But  though  Mary  ceased  to  talk  to  her  Uncle 
Villars,  she  could  not  cease  to  observe  him  and  to  wish  that 
she  knew  the  cause  of  his  sadness.  This  cause  she  at  last 
thought  she  had  discovered  in  the  differences  of  Ellen  and 
Mrs.  Merrill.  Vainly  did  poor  Mary  try  to  accommodate 
these  differences,  her  efforts  generally  ended  in  making  both 
of  the  disputants  displeased  with  her.  It  must  not  be 
thought  that  Mrs.  Merrill  was  cross  and  ill-tempered.  On 
the  contrary,  all  her  difficulties  with  Ellen  arose  from  her 


228  ELLEN    LESLIE. 


desire  to  do  what  was  kind  and  right  by  an  orphan  girl 
placed  in  her  charge,  for  Mr.  Villars  before/  he  brought  his 
nieces  home  had  said,  "  There  will  of  course,  Mrs.  Merrill, 
be  many  things  in  which  these  girls  will  require  the  atten 
tion  of  a  woman  to  their  conduct  and  their  comforts.  In 
these  things  I  know  I  may  trust  to  your  goodness," — and 
Mrs.  Merrill  was  determined  his  trust  should  not  be  disap 
pointed. 

Mary  and  Ellen  had  walked  out  together  one  after 
noon,  and  when  they  returned,  laid  their  bonnets  carelessly 
upon  the  table  in  the  parlor.  There  they  remained,  till 
Mrs.  Merrill  came  in  to  see  the  table  prepared  for  tea. 
"  Miss  Mary,  Miss  Ellen,  why,  here  are  your  .new  crape 
bonnets.  You  should  always  put  them  away  as  soon  as 
you  come  in  ;  crape  is  very  expensive,  my  dears,  and  very 
easily  injured." 

Mary  rose  and  removed  the  bonnets  from  the  table.  El 
len  remained  seated  "with  her  head  bent  over  a  piece  of  pa 
per,  on  which  she  seemed  to  be  drawing. 

"  Miss  Ellen,"  said  Mrs.  Merrill,  "  did  you  hear  what  1 
said  ?" 

"  Yes,  Mrs.  Merrill,  I  heard  you." 

"  f-will  put  both  bonnets  away,  Mrs.  Merrill,"  said  Mary; 
"  I  always  put  Ellen's  away  for  her." 

"Well,  my  dear  Miss  Mary,  that  may  be  very  kindly 
meant  in  you,  but  it  would  be  far  better  that  your  sister 
should  learn  to  do  without  you." 

Ellen  did  not  even  look  up — Mary  moved  towards  the 
door,  with  the  hope  that  if  the  bonnet  was  once  out  of  sight 
all  would  be  quiet,  but  Mrs.  Merrill  saw  the  movement,  and 
irritated  by  Ellen's  disregard  of  what  she  said,  she  ex 
claimed,  "  Stop,  Miss  Mary  j  I  am  sorry  to  find  fault  with 
you,  who  are  generally  so  good,  but  I  do  not  think  it  right 
in  you  to  interfere,  when  I  would  have  your  sister  learn  to 
wait  on  herself.  I  am  sure  it  is  for  her  own  good.  I  am 
sure  it  is  not  for  my  sake  I  take  the  trouble." 

Mary  looked  earnestly  at  Ellen,  but  the  head  was  perse- 
veringly  bent  down,  and  except  that  her  face  had  become 
quite  red  and  her  pencil  moved  very  fast,  any  one  might  have 
supposed  that  she  had  not  heard  a  word  of  what  was  pass 
ing.  There  stood  Mary,  with  a  bonnet  in  each  hand,  per 
fectly  irresolute,  afraid  to  speak  to  Ellen  lest  she  should 


ELLEN    LESLIE.  229 


cause  her  to  say  something  saucy — afraid  to  oppose  Mrs. 
Merrill,  who  it  was  evident  was  now  very  determined.  At 
length  she  ventured  to  say,  "  Ellen  is  busy  drawing,  Mrs. 
Merrill—3' 

Before  she  could  add  another  word,  Ellen,  who  scorned 
to  offer  any  apology  for  her  inattention  to  Mrs.  Merrill's 
wishes,  threw  aside  the  paper  and  pencil,  saying,  "  I  am  not 
busy  at  all — I  was  only  making  marks  on  the  paper,  Mary." 

"  I  knew  it — knew  it,"  said  Mrs.  Merrill ;  "  you  were  on 
ly  making  marks  to  show  me  that  you  did  not  care  for  me." 

"  Give  me  that  bonnet,  Miss  Mary,"  taking  Ellen's  from 
her  as  she  spoke,  and  laying  it  again  on  the  table,  on  which 
in  the  mean  time  she  had  arranged  every  thing  for  tea. 
"  There — let  it  lie  there  till  Mr.  Villars  comes  in.  I  will  see 
if  he  thinks  that  a  proper  place  for  a  young  lady's  bonnet." 

Ellen  smiled  scornfully. 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Merrill,"  said  Mary,  with  tears  in  her  eyes, 
"  do  not  plague  poor  Uncle  Villars  about  it." 

"  1  assure  you,  Miss  Mary  Leslie,  I  am  not  the  one  to 
plague  your  Uncle  Villars.  Many  a  year  I  have  lived 
with  him,  and  a  quiet  home  we  have  both  had  of  it  till  now, 
and  the  same  will  he  say,  I  will  be  bound  !" 

"  Ellen,  dear  Ellen,  I  am  sure  you  would  not  do  any 
thing  to  worry  our  good,  kind  Uncle  Villars ;  come,  dear 
Ellen,  and  take  your  bonnet  up  stairs." 

"  Mary,  I  wish  you  would  let  me.»and  my  bonnet  alone. 
I  did  not  ask  you  to  take  it  up." 

"  Well — but,  Ellen,  poor  Uncle  Villars  looks  so  sad  al 
ready.  Do  not  be  obstinate,  dear  Ellen." 

"  I  am  not  going  to  say  or  do  any  thing  to  Uncle  Villars, 
Mary,  and  I  think  it's  very  hard  if  I  am  to  be  blamed  for 
every  thing — even  for  his  looking  sad ;  but  nobody  ever 
finds  fault  with  me  that  you  do  not  take  their  part." 

"  Oh,  Ellen" — but  Ellen  turned  away,  and  Mary  with  a 
heavy  heart  walked  off"  with  her  own  bonnet  as  she  saw 
her  Uncle  Villars  entering.  Now,  any  one  who  has  read 
this  scene  will  perceive  that  Mrs.  Merrill,  although  she 
was  right  in  the  thing  itself  which  she  would  have  had 
Ellen  do,  was  very  wrong  in  her  manner  of  enforcing  it. 
The  only  right  way  to  govern  any  one  is  by  giving  them 
confidence  in  your  kindly  feelings  towards  them — by  love. 
Now,  Ellen  was  a  spoiled  child,  and  could  not  have  confi- 
20 


230  ELLEN    LESLIE. 


dence  in  the  kindly  feelings  of  any  one  who  thwarted  her. 
Mr.  Villars  saw  all  this,  and  therefore  he  had  great  pa 
tience  with  Ellen,  and  generally  soothed  her  into  some 
concession  to  Mrs.  Merrill;  very  little  would  satisfy  her 
kind  spirit ;  and  so  the  storm  would  for  the  time  pass  over. 
But  these  storms  so  frequently  returned,  that  Mr.  Villars 
felt,  unless  something  could  be  done  to  arouse  Ellen's  own 
mind  to  a  conviction  of  the  evil  of  her  temper  and  a  deter 
mined  effort  to  subdue  it,  she  must  always  be  unhappy 
herself,  and  the  cause  of  unhappiness  to  others.  As  Mr. 
Villars  became  more  interested  in  Ellen,  as  it  was  natural 
he  should  do  from  feeling  that  she  was  now  wholly  depend 
ent  on  him,  his  anxiety  on  this  subject  increased,  and  he 
often  found  himself  imagining  different  methods  for  cor 
recting  her  faults. 

One  of  Ellen's  bad  habits,  and  that  which  perhaps  most 
materially  interfered  with  Mrs.  Merrill's  comfort,  was  late 
sleeping,  or  rather  lying  in  bed,  for  Ellen  was  in  reality 
not  asleep  for  an  hour  before  Mary  could  induce  her  to 
rise, — but  Ellen  said  if  she  was  not  asleep,  neither  was 
she  wide  awake.  You  may  wonder  that  this  practice 
should  have  interfered  with  Mrs.  Merrill's  comfort,  as  by 
keeping  Ellen  out  of  the  way  it  would  seem  rather  to  promote 
her  quiet ;  but  Mrs.  Merrill  prided  herself  on  her  orderly 
housekeeping,  and  while  she  was  too"  kind  to  let  Ellen  go 
without  her  breakfast,  she  was  greatly  annoyed  at  having 
to  keep  the  table  waiting  for  her.  Mary  would  have  taken 
some  breakfast  to  her  sister  in  their  room,  and  so  have  ob 
viated  the  difficulty ;  but  this  Mrs.  Merrill  would  on  no  ac 
count  permit,  lest  the  carpet  or  the  bedclothes  should  be 
slopped  with  tea  or  greased  with  butter.  A  few  mornings 
after  the  scene  with  the  bonnet,  Mary  having  risen  as 
usual  and  dressed  herself,  began  her  efforts  to  arouse 
Ellen. 

"  Ellen — wake,  Ellen — I  hear  Uncle  Villars  moving  about 
in  his  room." 

Ellen,  without  speaking  or  opening  her  eyes,  turned  over 
and  covered  herself  up  more  closely. 

Mary  spoke  again,  "  Ellen — Uncle  Villars  has  gone 
down  stairs — he  will  ring  the  bell  for  breakfast  pres 
ently." 

Ellen  did  not  stir. 


ELLEN    LESLIE.  231 


Mary  touched  her, — put  her  arm  around  her  and  tried  to 
raise  her;  Ellen  flounced  off  to  the  other  side  of  the  bed, 
exclaiming,  "  Mary,  let  me  alone." 

"  Oh,  Ellen,  jump  up — there's  the  breakfast  bell — you 
know  nothing  puts  Mrs.  Merrill  so  much  out  of  sorts  as  our 
being  too  late  to  breakfast  with  Uncle  Villars." 

"  I  do  not  care  for  Mrs.  Merrill's  being  out  of  sorts — 
cross  old  woman;  she  might  just  as  well  let  me  have  my 
breakfast  up  here  as  not.  I  will  lie  half  an  hour  longer  just 
to  spite  her." 

"  But,  Ellen,  Uncle  Villars—" 

'  Uncle  Villars  does  not  care  a  pin  about  my  getting  up, 
if  he  only  has  you  to  sit  by  him;  you  know  that  as  well 
as  I  do." 

"  Well,  I  care,  Ellen—" 

"  Oh  do,  Mary — go,  and  eat  your  breakfast,  and  let  me 
alone." 

Another  ring  of  the  breakfast  bell  hurried  Mary  off,  ex 
claiming,  "  Make  haste,  Ellen,  and  you  may  get  down  yet 
before  we  are  done — I  will  eat  very  slowly." 

The  affectionate  kiss  with  which  Mr.  Villars  saluted 
Mary  was  followed  by  the  question,  "  Where  is  Ellen  ?" 

"  Miss  Ellen  is  not  awake  yet,  I  suppose,  Miss  Mary." 

Mary  at  that  moment  heard  Ellen's  step  on  the  floor 
above,  and  answered  quickly,  "  Oh,  yes,  Mrs.  Merrill,  she 
is  awake  and  up." 

"  Well,"  said  Mr.  Villars  with  a  good-humored  smile, 
"  if  she  is  up,  we  may  hope  she  will  soon  be  down." 

Mary  did  hope  so,  and  she  seated  herself  cheerfully  by 
her  Uncle  Villars,  while  Mrs.  Merrill  poured  out  coffee. 
The  nice  hot  cakes  and  Uncle  Villars'  pleasant  chat  made 
Mary  quite  forget  her  promise  to  eat  slowly,  until  just  as 
she  was  concluding  her  breakfast,  Mrs.  Merrill,  approach 
ing  the  door,  said,  "  Your  sister  stays  so  long,  Miss  Mary, 
I  will  go  and  see  if  she  wants  any  thing." 

"  I  will  go,  Mrs.  Merrill,"  said  Mary,  starting  up;  but 
it  was  too  late,  and  she  seated  herself  again,  exclaiming, 
"  Oh  !  I  am  so  sorry." 

"  Poor  child,"  said  Mr.  Villars,  "  you  look  as  much 
frightened  as  if  you  were  afraid  that  Ellen  would  be 
beaten.  Mrs.  Merrill  may  scold  a  little,  but  cheer  up,  I 
am  sure  she  would  not  hurt  Ellen  for  the  world." 


232  ELLEN    LESLIE. 


"  Oh  no,  Uncle  Villars,  I  know  she  would  not ;  it  was 
not  that  which  made  me  feel  sorry." 

"  What  was  it  then,  child  ?" 

Mary  looked  down  and  colored  as  she  said,  "  Ellen  is 
not  used  to  being  crossed  at  all,  you  know,  Uncle  Villars, 
and  Mrs.  Merrill  is  not  used  to  Ellen's  ways,  and  so  they 
do  not  understand  each  other ;  and — and — I  am  sure  when 
they  come  to  you,  Uncle  Villars,  it  must  worry  you  who 
always  lived  so  quietly  before  we  came." 

Mr.  Villars  did  not  see  exactly  what  Mary  was  coming 
to,  but  he  answered,  "  It  has  disturbed  me,  my  dear,  very 
much,  I  acknowledge,  but  more  for  Ellen's  sake  than  my 
own." 

"  I  have  seen,  Uncle  Villars,  how  very  badly  you  felt 
about  it ;  and  I  have  been  thinking — perhaps — you  had 
better  send  us  away." 

Mary  gave  this  advice  slowly  and  hesitatingly,  and  as 
she  looked  up  upon  concluding  it,  her  eyes  were  full  of 
tears  ;  for  Mary  loved  her  Uncle  Villars  dearly,  and  she 
was  old  enough  to  know  something  of  her  own  and  Ellen's 
situation,  and  to  feel  how  sad  it  would  be  for  them  to  be 
sent  away  from  the  house  of  their  best  friend  to  live 
among  strangers.  Mr.  Villars  saw  the  tears  in  Mary's 
eyes,  and  he  understood  all  her  tender  and  generous 
thoughts,  and  drawing  her  to  him  he  laid  her  head  on  his 
shoulder,  and  putting  her  hair  aside,  kissed  her  forehead, 
calling  her,  "  Dear  child — dear  child."  He  was  silent  a 
moment,  and  any  one  who  had  looked  closely  at  him  would 
have  seen  that  his  own  eyes  glistened  ;  then  he  added,  "  It 
is  one  of  my  chief  sorrows,  Mary,  that  we  shall  be  obliged 
"  to  part ;  but  not  for  the  reason  you  think — not  on  poor 
Ellen's  account — though  I  sometimes  hope  it  may  be  the 
cause  of  good  to  her»" 

At  this  moment  the  parlor  door  was  thrown  open,  and 
Ellen  entered  hastily.  She  was  followed  by  Mrs.  Merrill, 
neither  of  them  wearing  very  placid  faces.  Mr.  Villars, 
not  desiring  to  hear  the  complaints  on  either  side,  rose 
from  table,  and  still  holding  Mary's  hand,  said,  as  he  gave 
Ellen  his  morning  kiss,  "  Eat  your  breakfast,  my  dear, 
and  then  come  to  the  library ;  you  will  find  Mary  there, 
and  I  have  something  to  tell  you." 


ELLEN    LESLIE.  233 


CHAPTER.  V. 

A    SURPRISE. 

WHEN  Ellen  came  into  the  library,  she  was  surprised  to 
see  how  very  grave  her  uncle  Villars  looked.  She  turned 
her  eyes  on  Mary,  and  saw  that  she  had  been  weeping. 
Ellen  would  have  asked  what  was  the  matter,  but  she  was 
afraid  that  it  was  something  connected  with  her  and  her 
wrong  doings,  and  she  thought  it  the  safest  course  to  be  si 
lent.  Mr.  Villars  did  not  leave  her  long  in  doubt.  Draw 
ing  her  to  him,  he  said,  "  I  see,  Ellen,  that  you  are  anxious 
to  know  what  has  distressed  Mary  so  much  ;  it  is  the 
thought  of  parting  with  her  old  uncle — for,  Ellen,  my  dear 
child,  I  shall  have  to  part  with  you  both." 

Before  we  attempt  to  describe  Ellen's  emotions,  we  must, 
to  make  them  understood,  tell  our  readers  that  Mrs.  Merrill 
had  more  than  once,  when  very  much  provoked  by  Ellen, 
hinted  her  conviction  that  Mr.  Villars  would  not  long  be 
able.to  endure  such  an  unquiet  house — that  he  would  cer 
tainly  be  obliged  to  send  his  nieces  out  to  board,  and  that 
she  doubted  not  people  might  be  found  able  to  curb  the  most 
unruly  spirit.  On  such  occasions,  Ellen,  being  angry  too, 
had  very  valorously  declared,  that  she  was  ready  and  wil 
ling  to  go  anywhere  to  get  rid  of  Mrs.  Merrill.  But  we 
regard  things  very  differently  when  they  are  only  talked 
about  or  threatened,  and  when  they  actually  come.  Ellen 
felt  now  that  she  was  neither  ready  nor  willing  to  go. 
This,  however,  she  was  too  proud  to  acknowledge.  Tears 
rushed  to  her  eyes,  but  she  kept  them  back,  and  would 
have  answered  boldly,  perhaps  saucily  ;  but  as  she  raised 
her  head,  she  again  saw  Mary's  sad  face,  and  the  thought 
that  her  sister  was  to  suffer  for  her  fault,  subdued  her 
spirit.  Bursting  into  tears,  she  wept  for  a  minute  without 
speaking.  Mr.  Villars  passed  his  hand  kindly  over  her 
head,  saying  gently,  "  Poor  little  girl ! — poor  little  girl !" 
Encouraged  by  this  kindness,  she  at  length  exclaimed, 
though  sobs  still  impeded  her  utterance,  "  Please,  Uncle 
20* 


234  ELLEN    LESLIE. 


Villars,  let  Mary  stay — don't  send  Mary  away — I'm  sure 
she  is  good — I  can't  help  my  bad  temper — I  try  to  do  right 
— and  if  Mrs.  Merrill  would  only  let  me  alone,  I  am  sure 
I  would  not  trouble  her ;  but  send  me  away — I  don't  mind 
going — I  shall  be  very  glad  to  go," — here  Ellen's  pride  and 
anger  were  again  conquering  her  better  feelings, — "  yes, 
I  shall  be  very  glad  to  go — I  don't  want  to  stay  anywhere 
with  people  that  don't  like  me" — again  Ellen  raised  her 
head  stiffly,  and  again  she  saw  Mary,  whose  tears  were  now 
streaming — "  but  oh  !  Uncle  Villars,  let  Mary  stay — I 
know  you  love  Mary,  and  she  will  always  be  good." 

Mr.  Villars  had  not  interrupted  Ellen.  At  first  he  was 
too  much  surprised  at  the  feelings  she  expressed  to  do  so, 
and  then  he  continued  silent,  because  he  desired  to  hear  all 
she  had  to  say.  When  she  stopped  speaking,  he  said, 
"  Ellen,  do  you  suppose  that  I  would  send  either  of  you 
away  if  I  could  help  it  ?  You  are  my  children,  now,"  and 
putting  out  his  hand  for  Mary,  he  clasped  both  the  weeping 
girls  in  his  arms, — "  both  my  children,  and  I  love  you  both; 
but  some  of  my  property,  as  well  as  all  your  father's,  has 
gone  to  pay  his  debts.  They  were  honest  debts,  my  dear 
children,  and  the  people  to  whom  they  were  owed  wanted 
their  money,  and  we  must  not  regret  that  they  have  got  it ; 
but  we  are  poor  now,  and  we  cannot  continue  to  live  as.we 
have  done.  I  must  soon  leave  you  to  go  on  a  journey  to  a 
distant  place,  with  the  hope  of  recovering  some  money  which 
is  due  to  your  father's  estate.  I  know  not  how  long  I  may 
be  gone ;  and  even  when  I  return  I  may  not  be  able  to 
come  back  to  my  old  home,  but  may  be  obliged  to  look  out 
some  cheap  country  place  where  I  can  board  for  little  mo 
ney.  To  this  place  I  shall  not  take  you  with  me.  I  have 
good  reasons  for  not  doing  so.  Listen  to  me,  and  I  will  try 
to  make  you  understand  these  reasons.  I  am  now  an  old 
man,  and  it  is  very  probable  that  I  may  not  live  many 
years.  I  once  hoped  that  when  I  died  I  should  be  able  to 
leave  you  sufficient  property  to  support  you  in  the  way  in 
which  you  have  been  accustomed  to  live  ;  but  this,  I  now 
fear,  cannot  be.  You  will  be  obliged  to  do  something  by 
which  you  may  make  money  to  assist  in  supporting  your- 
selves.  Many  women,  you  know,  support  themselves  en 
tirely  by  their  own  work.  Do  you  remember  the  young 
girl  who  came  to  make  your  mourning  ?  She  not  only 


ELLEN    LESLIE.  235 


supplies  her  own  wants,  but  those  of  an  infirm  mother,  by 
her  work." 

"  And  must  we  go  and  hire  ourselves  out  to  people  to 
sew  for  them  as  she  does  ?"  asked  Ellen,  with  a  heightened 
color  and  a  curling  lip. 

"  No,  my  dear  Ellen,  you  could  not  do  that,  even  if  I 
wished  it.  Miss  Fenner  has  been  taught  to  make  dresses, 
— she  learned  it  as  a  trade,  just  as  a  shoemaker  learns  to 
make  shoes  or  a  carpenter  to  build  houses.  You  have 
never  learned  it,  and  I  fear  nobody  would  hire  you." 

Ellen  colored  now  from  shame  as  much  as  she  had  just 
done  from  pride. 

"But,"  Mr.  Villars  proceeded,  "there  are  some  things 
you  can  do.  You  can  embroider  and  paint,  and  do  many 
fancy  works  for  which  the  rich  are  ready  to  pay  money. 
Mary  understands  music  well.  She  may  give  lessons  in 
music,  and  you  can  both  of  you  teach  a  few  small  children. 
In  this  way,  that  is,  by  doing  whatever  you  can,  you  may 
make  enough  to  clothe  yourselves.  This  is  all  I  shall  ex 
pect  you  to  do  at  present, — I  will  pay  all  your  other  ex- 
penses ;  and  also  I  will  continue  to  pay  for  your  French, 
Italian,  and  music  lessons,  till  you  have  become  so  perfectly 
acquainted  with  them  as  to  be  able  to  teach  them  your 
selves.  You  will  then  be  always  able  to  support  yourselves 
respectably,  even  when  you  have  no  Uncle  Villars  to  help 
you." 

I  cannot  attempt  to  describe  to  you  the  feelings  with 
which  Mary  and  Ellen  had  listened  to  their  uncle.  They 
scarcely  understood  him,  and  what  they  did  understand 
seemed  like  a  strange  dream.  That  they,  who  had  always 
been  waited  on  and  surrounded  with  every  luxury,  should 
be  obliged  to  work  for  money  to  buy  their  clothes — just 
like  those  whom  they  had  been  accustomed  to  call  the  poor 
— it  seemed  impossible;  and  they  looked  at  Mr.  Villars 
steadily,  with  the  hope  that  they  should  discover  something 
like  a  smile — something  which  would  make  them  believe 
that  it  was  a  jest,  or,  as  Ellen  said  to  herself,  "  just  done  to 
frighten  me."  But  on  Uncle  Villars'  face  there  was  no 
smile — all  was  graver,  sadder  than  usual.  He  read  their 
thoughts,  and,  as  if  to  assure  them  of  the  truth  of  what  he 
had  said,  told  them  to  put  on  their  bonnets  and  he  would 
show  them  their  future  home .  They  obeyed  him,  and  he  took 


236  ELLEN    LESLIE. 


them  to  that  small  plain  house  in  which  I  found  them  living, 
and  introduced  them  to  Mrs.  Maclean  as  her  future  lodgers. 

The  next  day  Mr.  Villars  called  at  Colonel  Melville's, 
and  having  related  to  him  and  Mrs.  Melville  his  arrange 
ments  for  Mary  and  Ellen,  asked  what  they  thought  of 
them.  They  both  exclaimed  together,  "  They  will  never  do 
— they  will  never  do  !" 

"  Why,"  proceeded  Colonel  Melville,  "  here  are  two 
children,  Villars — two  mere  children — the  eldest  is  only 
fifteen,  I  believe ;"  he  paused,  and  Mr.  Villars  nodded. 
"  Well,  these  children,  hardly  out  of  the  nursery,  you  are 
going  to — " 

Mr.  Villars  interrupted  him  somewhat  impatiently,  "  Go 
ing  to  place  them  in  a  comfortable  room,  with  a  kind  and 
honest  woman — going  to  demand  of  them  that  they  shall  do 
just  as  much  as  they  can  to  help  themselves,  and  no  more ; 
for  all  which  they  cannot  do  without  injury  to  their  health, 
I  will.  My  children  shall  not  want — at  least  while  I  live," 
and  the  old  man's  voice  trembled.  "  From  you,  my  friends, 
I  ask  that  while  I  am  absent  you  will  watch  over  them. 
Do  not  let  them  want  any  thing  necessary  for  comfort.  I 
have  told  them  to  come  to  you,  Mrs.  Melville,  for  advice 
in  their  outlay  of  money.  I  would  wish  their  wardrobe  to 
be  suited  to  their  circumstances — plain,  but  neat,  respecta 
ble,  and  comfortable.  If  it  be  necessary  at  any  time,  Mel 
ville,  advance  money  for  them,  and  I  will  repay  you." 

"  Mr.  Villars,"  said  Mrs.  Melville,  earnestly,  "  I  will  do 
all  you  wish,  if  you  persist  in  this  plan,  but  I  pray  you 
think  better  of  it.  I  do  not  doubt  that  Mrs.  Brown  would 
take  Mary  into  her  school  as  a  sub-governess,  and  her  ser 
vices  in  this  capacity  would  pay  for  Ellen's  board  and  tui 
tion,  till  she  could  do  something  for  herself." 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Melville,  I  have  not  told  you  all  the  rea 
sons  which  make  me  prefer  my  plan  to  yours — fair  as 
yours  seems.  Poor  Ellen's  ungoverned  temper  must  be 
subdued ;  but  before  Mrs.  Brown  could  reduce  her  into  a 
proper  behaved  boarding-school  Miss,  she  must  inflict  and 
Ellen  endure  a  course  of  discipline  which  would  break 
Mary's  heart  to  witness.  Now  I  would  give  Ellen  a  dis 
cipline  which  she  cannot  escape  from — which  she  will  feel 
it  is  vain  to  fret  against — which  will  be  steady  and  unyield 
ing,  but  never  cruel  and  tyrannical, — the  discipline  which 


ELLEN    LESLIE.  237 


was  God's  own  appointment  for  man — labor  and  privation. 
Do  you  think  me  right  now  ?"  he  asked. 

"  I  think  that  you  may  be.     I  hope  that  you  are,"  said 
Mrs.  Melville. 


CHAPTER   VI. 

THE  BUTTERFLY  AND  THE  BEE. 

IN  a  fortnight  Mary  and  Ellen  had  taken  possession  of 
their  neat  plain  room  at  Mrs.  Maclean's,  and  Mr.  Villars 
had  set  out  on  his  journey  to  some  place  in  Carolina.  It 
was  autumn,  but.  the  weather  had  not  yet  become  at  all 
cold.  Mrs.  Maclean  was  a  lover  of  flowers,  and  the  little 
courtyard  before  her  house  was  really  gay  with  its  golden 
marigolds,  its  pink  and  white  artemisias,  and  its  purple 
dahlias.  We  have  said  that  Mrs.  Maclean  was  a  widow. 
She  had  no  children  of  her  own,  and  it  was  with  real  pleas 
ure  that  she  prepared  for  the  reception  of  these  young 
girls.  Mr.  Villars  had  sent  over  the  furniture  for  their 
room,  and  she  had  begged  that  they  would  come  over  them 
selves  and  direct  its  arrangement.  And  how  patiently  did 
she  obey  their  directions  !  Now  the  bedstead  was  put  be 
hind  the  door,  because  Mary  thought  that  the  right  place 
for  it ;  and  now  wheeled  into  the  corner  near  the  fireplace, 
because  Ellen  thought  it  would  look  best  there.  The  look 
ing-glass  was  hung  first  in  one  pier  and  then  in  the  other, 
and  then  moved  back  again  to  the  first.  In  short,  every 
piece  of  furniture  made  a  journey  around  the  room  before 
it  found  an  abiding  place,  and  yet  Mrs'.  Maclean  showed 
no  weariness  or  impatience, — a  fact  on  which  Ellen  dilated 
with  great  emphasis  to  her  uncle  in  Mrs.  Merrill's  pres 
ence — declaring  that  "  Mrs.  Maclean  was  so  good-natured, 
she  was  sure  she  should  love  her  dearly." 

When  Mr.  Villars  took  the  sisters  to  their  home  on  the 
evening  before  he  left  H.,  Ellen  carried  him  up  to  their 
room — explained  to  him  all  the  advantages  of  its  present 
arrangement — and  especially  challenged  his  admiration  for 
the  mantelpiece,  on  which  Mrs.  Maclean  had  placed  two 

• 

* 


238  ELLEN    LESLIE. 


china  mugs  filled  with  her  brightest  flowers.  More  pleas 
ant  than  all  to  Mr.  Villars,  was  her  satisfaction.  While 
his  children  smiled  so  cheerfully  and  appeared  so  anima 
ted,  he  felt  that  there  was  little  to  regret  in  their  change  of 
circumstances.  It  was  noon  the  next  day  before  Mr.  Vil 
lars  was  at  leisure  to  make  his  farewell  visit  at  Mrs,  Ma 
clean's.  As  soon  as  he  came  within  view  of  the  parlor 
windows,  he  saw  Ellen  standing  at  one  of  them,  looking 
out.  She  saw  him  too,  and  running  out  opened  the  little 
gate  for  him. 

"  Oh,  Uncle  Villars,  I  thought  you  were  never  coming, 
I  have  been  looking  for  you  so  long." 

"  That  was  very  unprofitable  labor,  Ellen,  for  it  could 
not  bring  me  here  any  sooner.  Where  is  Mary  ?" 

"  Up  stairs  in  our  room — come  softly,  Uncle  Villars,'"' 
here  Ellen  lowered  her  voice  to  a  whisper,  "  come  softly, 
and  I  do  believe  you  may  get  close  up  to  her  without  her 
knowing  it — she  is  so  busy  sewing." 

Ellen  tripped  lightly  on  herself,  and  Mr.  Villars  with  a 
smile  followed  with  as  quiet  a  step  as  possible.  They  as 
cended  the  staircase,  the  door  was  opened  without  the  least 
noise,  and  Ellen,  motioning  to  her  uncle  to  stand  still,  stole 
on  towards  her  sister.  Mary  sat  near  the  window,  but 
though  her  face  was  towards  it,  she  was  not  looking  out. 
Her  head  was  bent  down  over  a  piece  of  embroidery,  and 
her  fingers  were  moving  quickly  while  she  sang  in  a  low 
suppressed  voice  to  a  cheerful  tune  an  old  song,  the  words 
of  which  ran  thus — 

1. 

I  will  not  be  a  butterfly, 

To  sport  beneath  the  summer  sky, 

Idly  o'er  ev'ry  flower  to  roam, 

And  droop  when  winter  storms  have  come. 

2. 

I  will  not  be  an  ant,  to  soil 

Myself  with  low,  debasing  toil, 

To  crawl  on  earth — to  yon  bright  heaven 

No  wing  upraised,  no  effort  given. 

3. 

But  I  will  be  a  bee,  to  sup 
Pure  honey  from  each  flow'ry  cup  ; 
Busy  and  pleased  around  I'll  fly, 
And  treasure  win  from  earth  and  sky 


ELLEN    LESLIE.  239 


As  she  finished  her  song,  Ellen,  who  now  stood  close  be 
side  her,  though  unperceived,  took  up  the  strain  and  war- 
bled, 

Busy  and  pleased  around  I'll  fly, 
And  treasure  win  from  earth  and  sky. 

"  Ah  truant !"  said  Mary,  with  a  smile,  "  you  will  not 
win  much  treasure,  I  am  afraid.  See  how  much  I  have 
done  while  you  have  been  looking  out  for  Uncle  Villars, 
and  all  your  looking  has  not  brought  him." 

"  No — but  if  I  could  only  persuade  you  to  take  your 
eyes  from  your  work  and  just  give  one  glance  over  your 
shoulder,  he  would  be  here  I  know;  try  it,  Mary." 

"  No,  butterfly,  I  mean  to  be  a  bee,  and  you  shall  not 
tempt  me  to  lose  time." 

"  There,  Miss  Bee,  is  that  losing  time  ?"  asked  Ellen, 
as,  putting  a  hand  on  each  side  of  Mary's  head,  she  turned 
it  suddenly  round  to  where  Mr.  Villars  stood,  amused  by 
the  scene. 

"  Why,  Uncle  Villars  I"  exclaimed  Mary,  dropping  her 
work  in  her  surprise  and  pleasure,  and  hastening  to  meet 
him,  "  how  long  have  you  been  there  ?" 

"Long  enough  to  hear  most  of  your  song,  Mary.  But 
what  pretty  work  is  this  ?"  asked  Mr.  Villars,  as  he  pick 
ed  it  up  and  handed  it  to  her. 

"  A  cape  which  Mrs.  Melville  sent  me  this  morning  to 
embroider  for  her ;  and  see,  she  has  sent  Ellen  some  cam 
bric  handkerchiefs  to  hem." 

"  And  how  much  have  you  done  to  them,  Ellen  ?" 

"  I  have  done  half  a  side  to  one  of  them." 

Mr.  Villars  shook  his  head,  and  Ellen  coloring,  said, 
"  Well,  Uncle  Villars,  I  do  hate  so  to  hem  handkerchiefs ; 
it  is  all  the  same  thing  over  and  over  again.  Now  there 
is  some  pleasure  in  embroidering." 

"  But  my  little  girl  must  learn  to  take  pleasure  in  win 
ning  treasure,"  said  Mr.  Villars,  pleasantly. 

"  I  should  ,like  very  well  to  have  the  treasure,  Uncle 
Villars,  if  you  mean  money,  but  I  do  not  see  much  pleas 
ure  in  winning  it." 

"  But  I  do  not  mean  money  only,  Ellen,  that  is  the 
treasure  of  earth ;  but  you  remember  the  bee  won  that  of  the 
sky  too,  and  I  would  have  you,  my  dear  child,  win  the 
best  of  all  treasures,  a  disciplined,  well-regulated  mind  and 


240  ELLEN    LESLIE. 


heart ;  and  the  surest  way  to  do  this,  is  by  steady  per- 
severance  in  what  you  know  to  be  right,  however  disa 
greeable  it  may  be  to  you ;  and  to  encourage  you,  let  me 
tell  you  that  the  things  you  like  least  will  become  pleasant 
to  you  as  soon  as  you  have  made  up  your  mind  to  do  them, 
because  they  are  right." 

This  was  Mr.  Villars'  parting  lesson  to  Ellen,  for  it  was 
soon  time  for  him  to  be  on  board  the  steamboat  which  was 
to  take  him  to  New  York,  on  his  way  south.  He  left  them, 
with  many  charges  that  they  should  write  to  him  at  least 
once  a  fortnight;  and  that  they  should  apply,  if  any  diffi 
culty  occurred,  to  Colonel  and  Mrs.  Melville  for  advice, 
and,  if  necessary,  for  assistance. 


CHAPTER   VII. 

A  HOLIDAY. 

"  POOR  things,"  said  Mrs.  Maclean  the  next  morning  at 
the  breakfast  table,  when  she  saw  Ellen's  eyes  fill  with 
tears  at  some  mention  of  her  Uncle  Villars,  "  Poor  things  ! 
it  is  no  wonder  you  feel  bad  to  part  with  such  a  good 
friend ;  but  you  must  cheer  up,  he  will  soon  be  back  again  ; 
and  now  I  will  tell  you  what — instead  of  setting  down  to 
mope  in  your  room  to-day  we  will  just  make  a  holiday  of 
it.  I  will  put  my  ironing  off  for  once,  and  we  will  borrow 
Deacon  Foster's  horse  and  shay — the  shay  will  carry  us 
all  three  easy  enough — and  I  will  drive  you  out  to  my  bro 
ther-in-law's  farm.  Were  you  ever  there?" 

"No — never." 

"Well — I  can  tell  you  there  aint  many  such  farms 
as  Tom  Maclean's,  and  you'll  get  some  of  the  finest 
peaches  there  that  you've  seen  this  year.  So  now  I'll 
go  for  the  horse' and  shay,  and  you  can  put  these  cups  and 
saucers  in  the  cupboard  for  me,  and  get  your  bonnets  on 
by  the  time  I  come  for  you." 

Ellen's  face  brightened  with  the  anticipated  delights  of 
the  day* — a  ride  of  three  miles,  and  then  the  privilege  of 
sauntering  at  will  through  gardens  and  orchards,  of  a  sunny 


ELLEN    LESLIE.  241 


day  in  October — who  can  wonder  at  her  enjoyment  of  the 
thought  ?  Even  Mary  felt  that  she  might  take  a  holiday 
"  for  once,"  as  Mrs.  Maclean  said,  without  being  a  butter 
fly.  So  the  cups  were  soon  put  away,  and  the  bonnets  tied 
on,  and  soon  came  Deacon  Foster's  horse  and  shay,  and 
Mrs.  Maclean  driving.  Mary  and  Ellen  jumped-  in,  and 
found,  as  Mrs.  Maclean  had  told  them  there  would  be,  plenty 
of  room ;  and  Mrs.  Maclean  cheruped  to  the  horse,  and 
away  they  went — not  very  fast,  yet  fast  enough  to  get 
over  the  three  miles  in  much  less  time  than  Mary  and  El 
len  wished.  And  yet  they  could  scarcely  be  sorry  when 
they  reached  the  low,  but  large  stone  farmhouse,  with  its 
field  of  clover  on  one  side,  in  which  three  or  four  cows 
were  grazing,  and  its  orchard  on  the  other,  where  among 
pear  and  apple  trees  they  could  catch  glimpses  of  the  red 
and  yellow  peaches  which  Mrs.  Maclean  had  praised  so 
highly.  And  Mrs.  Tom  Maclean,  and  Susy  and  Martha 
Maclean,  came  to  welcome  them  with  such  pleasant  looks 
and  words,  that  nothing  seemed  wanting  to  their  gratifica 
tion.  All  the  morning  they  walked  about  with  Susy  and 
Martha  for  their  guides — had  fruit  from  the  orchard,  milk 
from  the  dairy,  and  more  flowers  from  the  garden  than  they 
could  carry  home.  When  called  in  to  dinner  they  found 
Mr.  Maclean  there.  He  too  received  them  very  kindly, 
and  talked  of  their  Uncle  Villars,  regretting  that  he  had 
met  with  any  troubles,  as  he  heard  he  had,  and  that  he 
should  have  been  obliged  to  leave  his  own  pleasant  home. 

"  Mrs.  Merrill  seems  almost  broken  down  about  it,"  con 
tinued  Mr.  Maclean  ;  "  and  she  teld  me  that  you  was  ago 
ing  to  keep  a  school  for  young  children :  now  I'm  a  thinking 
of  sending  our  Susy  and  Martha  to  you  for  a  while.  A 
little  more  schooling  won't  do  'em  any  harm,  and  they  can 
go  in  with  the  market-cart  every  morning,  and  come  back 
home  in  it  when  market  is  over.  You  can  help  them,  ! 
dare  say,  and  then  what  they  pay  will  help  you — and  that's 
what  I  call  right." 

Mary  thanked  Mr.  Maclean,  and  said  she  would  do  her 
best  to  "  help"  his  daughters,  who  smiled  at  each  other, 
and  looked  much  pleased  with  the  arrangement. 

"  Well  now,"  said  Mr.  Maclean,  "  I  should  like  to  know 
what  you're  going  to  charge  ?" 

To  this  Mary  could  only  answer,  whatever  bethought  right. 
21 


242  ELLEN    LESLIE. 


"  That  won't  do — that  won't  do,"  said  Mr.  Maclean ; 
"  you  sell  the  schooling,  and  I  buy  it :  it  is  the  one  that 
sells  that  always  ought  to  fix  the  price." 

"Tom,  how  you  talk,"  said  his  wife;  "you  might  as 
well  tell  a  baby  about  fixing  prices,  I  dare  say.  Don't  you 
know  what  you've  paid  before  for  schooling  ?" 

"Yes,  I  paid  a  dollar  a  month  apiece  ;  but  that  wouldn't 
be  fair  now — for  then  they  went  to  a  man,  and  only  learnt 
books  ;  but  I  guess  now  they'll  find  out  how  to  be  handy 
with  the  needle  too,  and  that's  worth  as  much  as  book 
learning  to  a  woman — so  I  think  double  the  old  price  would 
be  fair  now.  I'll  tell  you  what,  miss,"  he  added,  turning 
to  Mary,  "  to  encourage  you,  I'll  make  it  a  dollar  a  week 
for  the  two,  and  I'll  send  it  in  to  you  every  Saturday ; 
how  will  that  do  ?" 

Mary  thought  it  would  do  very  well.  Knowing  nothing 
of  the  labor  of  teaching,  and  as  little  of  the  value  of  money, 
she  thought  a  dollar  a  week  a  great  sum  to  be  given  her. 
It  was  really  a  generous  offer  in  Mr.  Maclean,  who,  being 
uneducated  himself,  could  not  estimate  very  truly  the  value 
of  her  services  in  educating  his  daughters,  and  who  knew, 
besides,  that  he  could  have  them  taught  at  some  common 
day-schools  for  less. 

The  happiest  day  must  have  an  end,  and  the  western  sky 
was  still  bright  with  the  sun's  last  beams,  when  Mary  and 
Ellen  alighted  at  their  own  door,  leaving  Mrs.  Maclean  to 
drive  home  the  borrowed  chaise. 

The  next  morning  Mary  awoke  very  early — much  earli 
er  than  usual,  and  try  as  much  as  she  would,  she  could  not 
sleep  again.  I  have  told  you  that  even  in  her  early  child 
hood  Mary  had  been  thoughtful,  but  now  you  must  remem 
ber  she  was  over  fifteen  years  old,  and  had  already  experi 
enced  such  changes  as  might  have  made  a  person  of  much 
gayer  temper  grave.  But  not  even  these  changes  had  tend 
ed  to  sadden  Mary  so  much  as  Ellen's  waywardness  had 
done.  The  charge  which  she  had  received  from  her  dy 
ing  mother  Mary  never  had  forgotten,  and  it  had  been  re 
cently  and  forcibly  repeated  by  her  father.  Though  Mr. 
Leslie  did  not  know  himself  the  extent  ,of  those  losses 
throueh  which  his  children  had  been  left  so  very  destitute, 
he  knew  enough  to  make  him  suffer  much  anxiety  about 
them  in  his  last  illness.  Especially  had  he  feared  for  Ellen, 


',    ' 

ELLEN    LESLIE.  I       243 

~^~ 


— so  young,  so  thoughtless,  and  so  arrogant  in  temperN^; 
To  Mary,  who  was  ever  at  his  side,  and  who  showed  so 
much  of  a  woman's  care  and  thoughtfulness  that  he  often 
forgot  she  was  but  a  child,  these  anxious  feelings  were  ex 
pressed  ;  and  again  did  she  promise  to  her  father,  as  under 
like  circumstances  she  had  done  to  her  mother,  that  she 
would  never  part  from  Ellen — that  she  would  love  her — 
and  bear  with  her — take  care  of  her,  and  if  it  were  neces 
sary,  work  for  her  support,  even  as  her  mother  would  have 
done  had  she  lived.  And  faithfully  did  Mary  fulfil  her 
promise  of  loving  Ellen  and  bearing  with  her,  and  pleas 
ant  did  she  feel  it  would  be  to  take  care  of  her,  and  even  to 
Jabor  for  her.  And  Ellen  loved  her  sister  Mary  too,  and 
for  her  sake  would  have  done  almost  any  thing  except  con 
trol  her  temper,  or  restrain  the  expression  of  any  angry  or 
dissatisfied  feeling.  But  it  was  just  this  temper  and  these 
feelings  which  gave  Mary  most  pain,  and  were  likely  to 
make  her  task  most  difficult.  In  all  which  these  sisters 
had  to  do,  they  must  depend  greatly  on  the  kindness  and 
good-will  of  others.  Mary  knew  this,  and  she  knew  too 
that  kindness  and  good-will  were  not  to  be  gained  by  a  dis 
play  of  passionate,  wilful  tempers.  Especially  did  Mary 
dread  any  thing  of  this  kind  in  the  school  they  were  about 
to  begin,  and  her  morning  thoughts — the  thoughts  which 
would  not  let  her  sleep  again  when  once  she  had  awoke — 
were  all  of  how  she  might  most  gently,  and  with  the  least 
danger  of  displeasing  Ellen,  impress  upon  her  how  much 
patience  and  self-control  would  be  needed  in  teaching  a  set 
of  rude,  ignorant  children.  Before  she  had  come  to  any 
decision  on  this  important  point,  Ellen  awoke,  and  with  more 
animation  than  she  usually  evinced  at  such  an  early  hour, 
exclaimed,  "  Why,  Mary,  not  up  yet — and  our  school  to 
begin  to-day  !" 

"  But   not   for  three  hours  yet,  Ellen — it  is  only  six 
o'clock." 

"  But  I  thought  you  were  always  up  at  half-past  five." 
"  So  I  am ;  but  I  have  been  thinking  so  much  about  this 
school  this  morning  that  I  have  forgotten  every  thing  else." 
"  What  about  it,  Mary — about  what  you  should  teach  ?" 
"  No,  Ellen — not  just  that ;  but  I  have  been  thinking 
how  unpleasant  and  difficult  it  will  be." 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?  I  think  I  shall  like  it." 


ELLEN    LESLIE. 


"  So  should  I,  Ellen,  if  I  were  sure  that  the  children 
would  all  be  smart,  and  pleasant  tempered ;  but  it  must  be 
very  hard  to  teach  dull  children ;  and  if  they  are  obstinate 
and  ill-tempered  we  shall  be  so  apt  to  become  impatient 
with  them,  and  then,  you  know,  all  comfort  will  be  at  an 
end." 

"  But  I  don't  see  why  you  should  think  they  will  be  dull ; 
I  am  sure  Susy  and  Martha  Maclean  seemed  to  be  very 
pleasant  children." 

"  So  they  did,  but  there  are  four  other  children,  you  know, 
whom  Mrs.  Maclean  has  engaged  for  us,  and  of  whom  we 
know  nothing." 

"  Well,  I  dare  say  they  are  clever  children.  For  my 
part  I  don't  think  children  are  ever  ill-tempered  unless 
people  are  cross  to  them,  and  if  you  are  afraid  that  I  shall 
be  cross  to  your  scholars,  Mary — " 

Mary  interrupted  Ellen's  hasty  speech,  saying  in  a  gen 
tle  tone,  "  I  am  afraid,  dear  Ellen,  that  our  scholars  will 
often  tire  us  and  try  our  patience  very  much ;  but  Uncle 
Villars  says  that  whatever  we  do,  we  should  do  cheer 
fully,  sol  will  not  talk  of  my  fears  any  more." 


CHAPTER  VIII.         ^ 

THE    SCHOOL. 

A  WEEK  passed  away,  and  nothing  occurred  in  the  little 
school  to  make  Mary  think  again  of  her  fears.  Ellen 
seemed  to  like  being  a  teacher  ;  and  if  she  laughed  and 
talked  and  played  with  her  pupils  a  little  more  than  was 
quite  consistent  with  her  new  dignity,  they  liked  her  all 
the  better  for  it,  and  learned,  from  a  wish  to  please  her, 
more  than  they  would  perhaps  have  done  if  more  con 
strained.  As  for  Mary,  Mrs.  Maclean  said,  "  It  was  just 
a  wonder  to  see  how  that  young  bit  of  a  thing,  that  was 
nothing  but  a  child  herself,  would  sit  sewing  so  steady  like, 
and  never  seem  to  be  thinking  of  any  thing  but  her  work  ; 
and  yet  if  any  of  the  young  ones  got  in  a  snarl,  and  Miss  <v^ 
Ellen'e  voice  only  sounded  quick  like,  she  was  up  in  a 


ELLEN    LESLIE.  245 


minute,  and  helped  them  so  quietly  along  that  they  hardly 
knowed  that  she  was  a  helping  till  they  got  through." 

Ellen  had  even  exerted  herself  to  rise  early,  that  she 
might  be  ready  for  her  scholars ;  but  the  second  Monday 
morning  after  the  commencement  of  her  labors  she  seemed 
to  find  this  an  unusually  difficult  task,  and  when  Mary, 
who  had  been  some  time  below  stairs,  came  back  to  tell  her 
that  it  was  eight  o'clock  and  breakfast  was  ready,  and  un 
less  she  dressed  herself  quickly  the  children  would  be  there 
before  their  room  was  in  order,  she  exclaimed,  "  Those 
children  !  I  am  sure  I  wish  I  had  never  seen  them  or  heard 
of  them.  It  is  bad  enough  to  have  to  teach  the  stupid  things, 
without  being  obliged  to  get  up  at  daybreak  for  them." 

"Daybreak,  Ellen!"  said  Mary,  moving  the  window- 
curtain  and  letting  in  a  stream  of  sunshine. 

"  Well,  I  don't  care  what  time  it  is,  Mary,  it  is  earlier 
than  I  choose  to  get  up,  and  earlier  than  I  would  get  up,  if 
it  was  not  for  them  ;  and  there  would  be  some  comfort  in  it 
if  one  thought  they  would  ever  learn  any  thing :  but  for 
such  a  stupid  set !" 

"  Stupid,  Ellen ! — why  Mrs.  Maclean  and  I  have  just 
been  saying  what  bright  intelligent  children  they  were." 

"  Well,"  said  Ellen,  who  had  now  talked  herself  into  a 
really  angry  mood,  "  I  suppose  they  do  not  learn  because 
they  have  such  a  stupid  teacher  in  me.  I  dare  say  if  you 
will  hear  their  lessons,  they  will  do  better." 

"  No,  Ellen,  I  think  they  do  learn — learn  more  with 
you  than  they  would  do  with  a  grave,  quiet  person  like 
me." 

"  I  do  think,  Mary,  you  are  the  most  contradictory  per 
son  I  ever  saw  in  my  life.  When  I  hoped  the  children 
might  be  clever,  you  were  sure  they  would  be  stupid ;  and 
now  that  I  think  them  stupid,  you  have  found  out  that  they 
are  wonderfully  intelligent." 

Mary  finding  that  whatever  she  said  tended  only  to  in 
crease  Ellen's  displeasure,  did  not  remind  her  that  the 
fears  she  had  expressed  had  been  quite  as  much  of  the  im 
patience  of  the  teacher  as  of  the  stupidity  of  the  scholars. 

Mrs.  Maclean's  call  to  breakfast  on  this  morning  was 
quickly  and  gladly  obeyed  by  Mary,  for  she  thought 
Ellen's  irritation  would  subside  sooner  if  she  was  alone. 
At  any  rate,  thought  Mary,  when  Ellen  comes  to  say  her 

2P 


246  ELLEN    LESLIE. 


prayers,  her  ill-humor  will  pass  away.  With  this  hope 
she  went  to  the  breakfast  table,  and  when  Ellen  followed, 
received  her  so  cheerfully,  that  her  frowns  soon  began  to 
wear  away  and  the  tones  of  her  voice  to  grow  more 
pleasant.  They  had  not  yet  risen  from  the  table  when 
Anna  Melville  rushed  in,  sparkling  with  joyous  expec 
tation. 

"  Mary  and  Ellen,  papa  is  going  to  carry  us  to  see  the 
caravan  of  animals  at  N.,  and  if  you  were  not  going  to 
have  school  to-day,  he  would  carry  you  with  us»  Must 
you  have  school  ?  Can't  you  manage  so  as  to  go  ?" 

Mary  was  delighted  at  the  prospect  of  such  a  pleasure 
for  Ellen,  and  she  answered  quickly,  "  We  cannot  both  go, 
Anna — but  Ellen  can." 

"I  am  sure,  Mary,  I  don't  see  how  I  can  go  any  more 
than  you.  Any  one  would  think,  to  hear  you,  that  I  did 
nothing  at  all  in  the  school." 

"  You  know,  Ellen,  that  I  cannot  mean  that,  for  you  do 
a  great  deal  more  than  I,  but  I  can  take  your  place  and 
give  you  a  holiday  for  one  day." 

"  Yes,  and  have  Uncle  Villars  think  when  he  comes  back 
again  that  I  have  done  nothing  but  amuse  myself  while 
you  were  at  work.  I  thank  you,  Anna — but  I  cannot  go 
to  see  caravans.  I  must  stay  and  keep  school." 

Anna  stood  irresolute. 

"  Mary,  cannot  you  go  ?"  said  she  at  last. 

"  Thank  you,  Anna,"  said  Mary,  "  but  I  should  not  en 
joy  it  unless  Ellen  could  go  too." 

"  Mary,  I  beg  you  will  not  stay  at  home  on  my  ac 
count." 

Anna  saw  that  neither  of  the  sisters  was  going,  and  she 
bade  them  good  morning,  and  left  the  house  with  a  much 
more  serious  face  and  more  sedate  step  than  that  with 
which  she  entered  it,  for  ill-humor  has  the  property  of 
making  all  unhappy  who  come  within  its  reach.  As 
Anna  opened  the  door,  Mr.  Maclean's  market-cart  drove 
up  with  Susy  and  Martha.  The  children  stood  for  a  mo 
ment,  after  leaving  the  cart,  to  look  at  her,  and  before  she 
was  out  of  hearing  Ellen  was  calling  from  the  house, 
"  Susy,  Martha,  if  you  stand  all  day  staring  there  I  might 
as  well  have  pleased  myself  by  going  with  Anna  Melville, 
as  have  stayed  at  home  to  teach  you." 


ELLEN    LESLIE.  247 


"  Did  you  want  to  go,  Miss  Ellen  ?" 

"  That  is  of  rio  consequence,"  said  Ellen,  "  for  if  I  want 
ed  to  go  ever  so  much  I  could  not." 

"  Oh  yes — but  you  could,"  said  the  kind-hearted  girls  ; 
"  now  do  go,  and  we'll  get  our  lessons  just  the  same,  and  say 
them  all  to  you  to-morrow." 

"  That  may  suit  you  just  as  well,  but  your  father  would 
hardly  be  willing  to  pay  his  money  if  you  were  left  to  get 
your  lessons  by  yourselves." 

"  Oh,  I'm  sure  my  papa  wouldn't  mind  about  it." 

Ellen  impatiently  pushed  the  child  nearest  to  her  into 
the  room,  saying,  "  I  do  wish  you  would  go  to  your  lessons, 
and  hush  talking  about  what  does  not  concern  you  !" 

It  will  readily  be  believed  that  Mary  had  to  help  Ellen 
and  the  children  through  many  a  "  snarl,"  to  borrow  Mrs. 
Maclean's  significant,  though  not  very  elegant  expression, 
on  this  day.  But  the  evil  did  not  stop  there.  Three  of 
the  girls  were  sent  home  weeping  and  indignant,  to  com 
plain  that  Ellen  Leslie  had  called  them  by  some  unkind  or 
disgraceful  epithet.  These  girls  brought  back  the  next 
morning  messages  from  their  parents,  intimating  that  they 
were  sent  to  school  to  Mary  Leslie,  and  that  it  was  hoped 
she  would  teach  them  herself.  Poor  Mary !  she  scarce 
knew  how  to  meet  this  difficulty.  To  comply  with  the  re 
quest  would  grievously  wound  and  displease  Ellen,  who 
had  really,  till  this  unlucky  day,  given  no  just  cause  of 
complaint ;  not  to  comply  with  it  would  as  certainly  dis 
please  several  of  those  on  whose  support  her  school  de 
pended.  But  better  lose  their  support — better  lose  any 
thing,  Mary  said  to  herself,  than  create  unkind  feelings  be 
tween  Ellen  and  myself.  So  she  tried  to  pacify  the 
children  and  satisfy  the  parents  without  making  any 
change  in  the  arrangements  of  the  school. — Perhaps,  had 
Ellen  seconded  her  efforts,  she  would  have  succeeded,  but 
Ellen  could  not  forget  the  mortification  she  had  received 
from  this  affair,  and  scarce  a  day  passed  that  she  did  not 
by  some  petulant  word  or  action  increase  the  dissatisfaction 
of  her  pupils  or  their  parents,  till  one  by  one  they  were 
withdrawn.  With  them  went  the  most  certain  profits  of 
the  sisters  ;  yet  it  was  with  real  satisfaction  that  Mary  saw 
the  door  close  upon  the  last  scholar  who  left  them,  for  she 
hoped  now  to  see  Ellen  again  cheerful  and  pleased  as  when 


248  ELLEN    LESLIE. 


they  first  came  to  Mrs.  Maclean's.  She  turned  smilingly 
towards  her  from  the  window  at  which  she  was  standing,  to 
express  her  satisfaction,  and  was  surprised  to  find  her  weep 
ing  bitterly. 

"  Ellen,  my  own  dear  little  sister,  what  is  the  matter  ? 
Surely  you  are  not  sorry  that  those  children  are  gone  who 
have  plagued  you  so." 

"  No,  Mary,  I  am  not  sorry  they  are  gone,  but  I  am  sorry 
that  I  made  them  go.  I  know  they  all  hate  me,  Mary,  and 
their  fathers  and  mothers  hate  me." 

"  Ellen — my  dear  Ellen — people  don't  hate  each  other 
for  such  little  things." 

"  Oh  yes,  Mary — I  heard  the  children  say  they  hated 

'  me.     Nobody  will  ever  love  me,  and  I  can't  help  it — I  am 

sure  I  can't  help  it ;  for  I  try  to  be  good  like  you — but  I 

can't,  Mary — I  can't.     I  wish  I  was  dead,  and  buried  with 

poor  papa  and  mamma." 

"  Ellen — my  dear  Ellen  !  this  is  very  wicked  and  very 
cruel,  Ellen.  You  know  that  I  love  you,  Ellen — that  I  love 
you  dearly — better  than  I  love  any  thing  else  in  the  world, 
and  yet  you  want  to  die  and  leave  me  here  by  myself: 
what  would  I  do  without  my  own  little  sister !"  Mary's 
voice  became  choked,  and  she  too  sobbed  aloud.  Ellen 
felt  then  that  she  had  indeed  been  wicked  and  cruel  to  de 
sire  any  thing  which  might  grieve  this  loving  sister.  From 
this  time  she  did  try,  and  try  successfully,  to  control  her 
temper  towards  Mary  herself,  rarely  being  betrayed  into 
any  petulance  towards  her ;  or,  if  she  were,  endeavoring 
the  next  moment  to  atone  for  it,  by  double  tenderness  of 
manner  and  speech.  But,  impressed  with  the  conviction 
that  she  was  disliked  by  all  others,  she  became  daily  more 
and  more  irritable  towards  them,  more  and  more  careless 
and  defying  in  her  manner,  till  she  created  the  very  dis 
like  she  had  at  first  only"  fancied.  Naturally  affectionate, 
Ellen  could  not  but  suffer  under  a  consciousness  of  this 
dislike,  and  hence  the  gloomy  dissatisfaction  which  I  no 
ticed  in  her  countenance  on  my  first  visit  to  Mary  and  her 
self  after  my  return  to  H . 


ELLEN    LESLIE.  249 


CHAPTER   IX. 

GREAT    TRIALS. 

MR.  VILLARS  had  now  been  gone  six  months,  and  the 
business  which  had  taken  him  south,  and  which  he  had  not 
supposed  would  detain  him  half  so  long,  was  not  yet  com 
pleted.  Colonel  Melville  heard  from  him  frequently,  for 
to  him  he  expressed  all  his  wishes  respecting  his  children, 
as  he  always  called  Mary  and  Ellen.  Soon  after  the 
school  was  given  up,  he  wrote  to  ask  that  Colonel  Melville 
would  let  him  know  all  he  could  learn  about  it,  as  Mary's 
account  of  her  reasons  for  discontinuing  her  teaching  was 
so  confused  and  imperfect,  that  he  was  afraid  there  was 
something  which  she  had  not  liked  to  tell.  Before  Colonel 
Melville  had  found  time  to  reply  to  this  letter,  he  received 
another  from  Mr.  Villars  to  say  that  he  had  already  learned 
all  which  he  had  requested  him  to  ascertain,  from  Ellen, 
who  had  ef  her  own  accord  written  a  full  statement  of  the 
whole  business,  for  fear,  as  she  wrote,  that  he  might  blame 
Mary  if  he  did  not  know  all.  "  Poor  child,"  Mr.  Villars 
wrote  to  his  friend,  "  her  letter  is  a  very  sad  one.  Few 
things  can  be  more  sad  than  to  see  childhood,  the  brightest 
and  most  joyous  period,  the  holiday  of  our  lives,  made  mis- 
erable  by  evil  passions.  And  yet,  with  all  its  sadness,  El 
len's  letter  gave  me  pleasure,  for  it  shows  that  she  is  be 
ginning  to  feel  the  influence  of  that  discipline  from  which, 
you  know,  I  hope  so  much  for  her.  She  is  beginning  to 
learn  the  secrets  of  her  own  heart — to  see  that  from  the 
evil  there,  arises  much  of  the  suffering  she  endures.  She 
must  yet  see  more  of  this — feel  more  hopeless,  more  de 
spondent — learn  that  there  is  no  rest  for  her  on  earth — no 
rest  for  her  anywhere  except  in  making  it  the  most  earnest 
desire  of  her  heart  and  effort  of  her  life  to  do  right — in  a 
perfect  willingness,  when  she  has  done  this,  to  leave  every 
thing  which  concerns  her  to  the  care  of  her  Heavenly 
Father,  and  in  such  entire  trust  in  that  Heavenly  Father's 
goodness,  that  even  when  she  suffers  she  shall  feel  that  it  is 
his  love  which  corrects  her  faults." 


250  ELLEN    LESLIE. 


Perhaps  you  would  like  to  see  something  of  the  lettef 
which  made  Mr.  Villars  feel  at  once  so  much  grieved  and 
so  hopeful  for  poor  Ellen.  I  have  it  with  me,  and  will  ex 
tract  a  few  sentences  from  it  for  your  perusal.  After  giv 
ing  a  very  fair  account  of  the  school,  of  the  pleasure  she 
at  first  felt  in  it,  of  the  pains  she  took  to  please  and  improve 
the  children,  she  relates  very  truly  all  which  took  place  on 
that  unlucky  Monday  morning — how  reluctant  she  was  to 
rise — how  fretted  with  Mary  for  trying  to  persuade  her  that 
»hings  were  not  so  bad  as  she  felt  them  to  be — how  disap 
pointed  that  she  could  not  go  with  Anna  Melville,  yet  how 
unwilling  to  let  it  appear  by  her  going  that  she  was  of  no 
consequence  at  all,  but  that  Mary  could  do  just  as  well 
without  her — how  dissatisfied  with  herself  for  all  these 
things — how  that  dissatisfaction  made  her  impatient  with  the 
children — and  how  that  morning's  impatience  was  deepened 
into  dislike  by  their  resentment — their  readiness,  as  she 
said,  to  give  her  up  just  for  one  cross  word — their  thinking 
so  much  more  of  Mary,  who  had  never  done  any  thing  for 
them,  thau  of  her  who  had  taken  so  much  trouble  with  them. 
After  this  account  Ellen  adds,  "  And  so  it  is  always,  Uncle 
Villars — everybody  loves  Mary  without  her  caring  for  it 
or  trying  to  make  them  love  her  ;  and  I  want  them  to  love 
me,  and  do  every  thing  I  can  to  make  them  love  me,  and 
yet  they  never  do, — nobody  but  Mary.  Even  you,  Uncle 
Villars,  though  you  were  always  very  kind  to  me,  did  not 
love  me  as  you  loved  Mary.  I  know  it  is  because  she  is 
so  good,  and  I  have  such  a  wicked,  bad  temper.  But, 
Uncle  Villars,  I  cannot  help  my  temper — indeed  I  cannot, 
for  I  have  tried  very  often,  very  often  indeed.  Many  a 
time  I  have  said  to  myself,  when  I  got  up  in  the  morning — 
I  will  be  good  and  kind  to  everybody  to-day,  and  I  will  not 
say  a  cross  word,  or  give  an  angry  look,  let  them  serve  me 
ever  so  badly,  but  when  people  tease  and  worry  me  I  for 
get  it  all.  And  so  now,  Uncle  Villars,  since  I  cannot  help 
it,  I  mean  to  try  not  to  care  about  it  at  all — not  to  love 
anybody  except  Mary,  who  loves  me  so  much  that  I  never 
get  angry  with  her  now,  and  you  who  were  always  so  kind 
to  me." 

The  letter  here  broke  off  abruptly,  and  was  continued  again 
several  days  after  in  these  words :  "  What  I  was  writing 
to  you  the  other  day,  Uncle  Villare,  made  me  feel  so  bad 


ELLEN    LESLIE.  251 


that  I  had  to  put  down  my  pen  and  cry.  Since  that,  I  have 
hardly  thought  of  any  thing  else,  and  I  am  more  and  more 
convinced  that  it  all  comes  from  my  bad  temper  ;  but  that  is 
no  comfort,  since  I  cannot  help  it.  I  am  afraid  you  will 
think  me  very  wicked,  but  I  cannot  help  wishing  I  was 
dead.  I  think,  then,  when  people  saw  me  lying  so  pale 
and  still,  and  knew  that  I  could  never  say  an  angry  word 
again,  they  would  feel  sorry  for  having  been  so  hard  upon 
me,  and  they  would  look  kindly  at  me  and  speak  kindly  of 
me.  I  think  of  these  things  a  great  deal,  but  do  not  tell 
Mary  so,  for  it  would  distress  her.  I  am  almost  sorry  for 
having  written  all  about  these  feelings  to  you,  Uncle  Vil- 
lars ;  but  my  letter  must  go  now,  for  it  has  taken  me  a 
great  deal  of  time  to  write  so  long  a  one,  and  I  want  you 
to  know  all  about  the  school,  for  fear,  as  I  said  before,  you 
should  blame  Mary." 

About  a  month  after  Colonel  Melville  had  received  the 
letters  of  which  I  have  spoken  from  Mr.  Villars,  I  met  Mrs. 
Maclean  in  one  of  my  morning  walks. 

"  And  how  are  Mary  and  Ellen  Leslie  this  morning, 
Mrs,  Maclean  ?"  asked  I. 

"  Middling,  ma'am,  middling,"  replied  Mrs.  Maclean ; 
"  Miss  Mary's  looking  a  little  pale,  but  I  think  it's  trouble 
more  than  sickness." 

"  Trouble  !  why,  I  hope  nothing  has  happened  to  disturb 
her." 

"  Nothing  more  than  usual,  ma'am ;  but  that  sister  of 
hers  is  enough  to  worry  out  a  saint ;  and  I'm  sure  that's 
Miss  Mary,  if  there  ever  was  one." 

"  I  fear  Ellen  is  no  favorite  with  you,  Mrs.  Maclean." 

"  Indeed,  ma'am,  and  she  was  a  very  great  favorite 
when  first  she  came  to  me,  for  she  was  a  lively,  sprightly 
thing  as  ever  I  seed,  but  when  she  gets  in  her  tantrums, 
she's  more  than  mortal  flesh  can  bear." 

"  But  what  do  you  mean  by  her  tantrums,  for  I  acknowl 
edge  I  have  never  seen  any  thing  in  her  which  did  not  ap 
pear  to  me  very  excusable  in  a  spoiled  child." 

"  Well,  ma'am,  it  may  be  so ;  that  spoiled  child  may 
excuse  it  all ;  but,  as  I  said,  it's  very  hard  for  them  to  bear 
that  didn't  spoil  her.  Now,  only  this  morning  she  asked 
me  quite  civil  like  for  some  more  sugar  in  her  tea ;  and  I, 
to  be  just  as  civil  as  she,  said,  'Come,  help  yourself,  for  I 


252  ELLEN    LESLIE. 


am  afraid  I  won't  suit  you.' — Says  she,  '  I'm  sure  I'm  not 
so  very  hard  to  be  suited,  and  if  you  don't  choose  to  help 
me  I  can  go  without.'  And  then  I  was  mad  at  her  per 
verse  ways,  and  I  said,  '  Well,  and  if  you  can't  put  out 
your  hand  and  help  yourself,  you  can  go  without.'  'Yes,' 
says  she,  '  that's  a  very  good  excuse  to  save  your  sugar.' 
And  then  she  keeps  a-throwing  out  her  insinuations  of  my 
stinginess,  and  how  sorry  her  Uncle  Villars  would  be  for 
boarding  them  where  they  couldn't  get  enough  to  eat  and 
drink ;  till  I  answered  her,  and  says,  '  Well,  I'm  sure  he 
can't  be  no  sorrier  than  I,  for  I  would  rather  eat  but  one 
meal  a-day  in  peace  and  quiet,  than  to  take  my  good, 
hearty,  three  meals  a-day  with  you  quarrelling  over  them.' 
With  that,  up  she  gets,  and  says,  '  I  won't  take  my  meals 
at  anybody's  table  that  don't  wish  me  to,  and  I  will  never 
eat  another  meal  at  your  table  if  I  starve  to  death  ;'  and 
sure  enough,  off  she  went  up  stairs  without  her  breakfast. 
I  shouldn't  have  minded  that  much,  but  poor  Miss  Mary 
went  without  her  breakfast  too,  and  had  a  good  cry  be 
sides." 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE    INVITATION. 

WHEN  I  repeated  to  Mrs.  Melville  the  conversation  I 
had  had  with  Mrs.  Maclean,  we  were  just  passing  in  to 
dinner,  and  she  bade  Anna,  as  soon  as  we  had  dined,  go 
over  and  invite  the  Leslies  to  pass  the  afternoon  and  eve 
ning  with  her ;  adding,  in  a  lower  tone,  to  me,  that  such 
was  Ellen's  wilfulness,  she  would  not  be  at  all  surprised  to 
hear  that  she  had  held  her  purpose  for  all  day,  or  even  for 
several  days.  Anna  did  not  need  to  be  reminded  of  her 
errand,  but  went  over  to  Mrs.  Maclean's  quite  early,  and 
quickly  returned,  bringing  Mary  and  Ellen  along  with 
her.  It  was  now  May,  and  Emma  Melville  having  re 
ported  the  spring  roses  to  be  in  bud,  the  children  soon  left 
the  parlor,  where  Col.  and  Mrs.  Melville  and  I  were  seated, 
and  from  the  windows  of  which,  a  few  minutes  after,  we 


ELLEN    LESLIE.  253 


could  see  them  walking  around  the  flower-beds  in  the  gar 
den,  and  occasionally  stopping  to  search  for,  or  to  commu 
nicate  some  new  token  of  the  advancing  season.  Our  ob 
servations  on  them  were  interrupted  by  the  sound  of  the 
door-bell  and  the  entrance  of  a  servant,  who,  handing  Col. 
Melville  a  card  and  a  letter,  announced  that  the  gentleman 
who  brought  them  was  waiting  to  see  him  in  the  next 
room.  Col.  Melville  only  glanced  at  the  card,  ran  his  eye 
hastily  over  the  letter,  and  handing  them  both  to  Mrs.  Mel 
ville,  went  to  meet  his  visiter.  "  The  Rev.  Mr.  Wal 
lace,"  said  Mrs.  Melville,  as  she  looked  at  the  card,  in  a 
tone  which  indicated  that  to  her  at  least  he  was  a  stranger. 
"  And  the  letter,"  she  added,  as  opening  it  she  looked  at 
once  at  the  name  of  the  writer,  "  is  from  Mrs.  Herbert." 

"  And  who  is  Mrs.  Herbert  ?"  I  asked. 

"  Did  you  never  hear  of  her  ?  She  is  a  sister  of  Mr. 
Leslie.  I  have  not  seen  her  since  her  marriage,  fifteen 
years  ago ;  but  if  her  maturer  years  have  fulfilled  the 
promise  of  her  early  life,  she  must  be  excellent  indeed." 

"  You  say  you  have  not  seen  her  in  fifteen  years ;  has 
she  never  visited  her  brother  in  all  that  time  ?" 

"  No — she  removed  on  her  marriage  to  the  western  part 
of  the  State  of  New  Yorlf?  and  as  Mr.  Herbert  was  not 
wealthy,  the  expense  of  travelling  so  far  has  perhaps  had 
something  to  do  with  keeping  her  away." 

"  But  Mr.  Leslie  was  long  thought  a  very  wealthy  man  ; 
did  he  not  assist  his  sister  ?" 

"  I  have  heard  that  he  offered  to  do  so  ;  but  as  he  had 
disapproved  her  marriage  with  one  who  had  so  few  worldly 
advantages  to  offer  as  Mr.  Herbert,  it  was  probably  regard 
for  her  husband's  feelings  which  made  Mrs.  Herbert  de 
cline  his  aid,  replying,  as  I  was  told  she  did,  with  every 
expression  of  grateful  affection  for  her  brother,  but  adding 
the  assurance  that  they  had  enough  for  happiness."  After 
a  few  minutes'  silence  Mrs.  Melville  added :  "  I  doubt  not 
they  were  very  happy,  for  he  seemed  worthy  of  her,  and 
that  is,  I  assure  you,  high  praise.  What  a  blow  his  death 
must  have  been  !" 

"  His  death !"  I  exclaimed—"  is  he  dead  ?" 

"  Yes ;  I  thought  I  had  mentioned  that  she  was  now  a 
widow  :  he  died  about  the  same  time  with  Mr.  Leslie.  His 
death  was  sudden,  and  I  fear  he  left  her  and  her  three 
22 


254  ELLEN    LESLIE. 


children  but  illy  provided  for.  Had  it  been  otherwise,  she 
would,  I  am  sure,  before  this  time  have  endeavored  to  do 
something  for  Mary  and  Ellen  ;  for  I  know  that  Mr.  Villars 
wrote  soon  after  their  father's  death,  informing  her  of  their 
entire  destitution,  and  of  those  embarrassments  on  his  part 
which  would  prevent  his  doing  all  he  wished  for  them." 

Mrs.  Melville  had  scarcely  ceased  speaking,  when  the 
door  between  the  two  parlors  was  opened,  and  Mr.  Melville 
entered,  accompanied  by  a  very  benevolent-looking  old 
gentleman,  whom  he  introduced  as  Mr.  Wallace,  saying, 
as  he  presented  him  to  Mrs.  Melville,  that  he  was  a  near 
neighbor  of  her  old  friend  Mrs.  Herbert,  of  whom  he  could 
give  her  very  late  intelligence,  as  he  had  been  only  about 
a  fortnight  from  home. 

"  I  have  just  been  speaking  of  Mrs.  Herbert,"  said  Mrs. 
Melville,  addressing  herself  to  Mr.  Wallace,  "  and  though 
it  has  been  fifteen  years  since  we  met,  there  are  few  of 
whom  I  retain  a  more  admiring  and  pleasant  remembrance. 
I  was  indeed  grieved  when  I  heard  of  Mr.  Herbert's 
death." 

"  It  was  a  terrible  blow,"  said  Mr.  Wallace,  "  the  more 
terrible  from  being  so  sudden  ;  but  Mrs.  Herbert  is  a 
mourner  from  a  yet  more  recent  affliction — the  death  of 
her  eldest  child  and  only  daughter." 

"  Indeed  !  such  repeated  and  heavy  strokes — how  has 
she  borne  up  under  them  ?" 

"  As  one  who,  though  a  devoted  wife  and  mother,  is  like 
wise  a  devoted  Christian.  The  strokes  have  been  indeed 
as  you  say,  heavy,  but  she  has  bowed  to  them,  and  kissed 
the  rod  which  she  knew  was  in  a  Father's  hand.  You  who 
remember  her,  madam,  will  not  be  surprised  to  learn  that 
no  selfish  sorrow  has  made  her  forgetful  of  her  remaining 
duties." 

"  She  has  yet  two  children,  I  believe,"  said  Mrs.  Mel 
ville. 

"  Yes — two  fine  boys,  whose  education  is  scarcely  com 
menced  yet,  as  the  eldest  is  but  thirteen  years  old.  Her  or 
phan  and  destitute  nieces,  too,  who,  I  understood,  were 
with  you  this  afternoon,  she  feels  to  have  strong  claims 
upon  her,  almost  as  strong  as  those  of  her  own  children. 
To  these  claims  she  had  not  hitherto  been  able  to  attend, 
for  she  had  scarce  recovered  from  the  first  bewildering  ef- 


ELLEN    LESLIE.  255 


feet  of  her  husband's  death,  when  the  symptoms  which 
had  already  alarmed  her  in  her  daughter's  health,  deepen 
ed  into  decided  consumption,  and  her  whole  time  was  ne 
cessarily  given  to  her  till  death  released  her  from  her 
cares." 

"And  will  she  now  be  able  to  give  a  home  to  these  poor 
girls  ?" 

"  Only  to  one  of  them,"  said  Mr.  Melville,— "  to  Ellen." 

"  And  separate  them  !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Melville  ;  "that 
will  never  do." 

"  So  Mrs.  Herbert  thought  at  first,"  said  Mr.  Wallace, 
smiling,  "  but  she  has  been  in  correspondence  with  Mr. 
Villars  on  the  subject,  and  she  has  yielded  to  his  arguments, 
on  the  one  condition,  that  the  children  themselves  consent 
to  the  arrangement." 

."  That  I  am  sure  they  will  never  do,"  said  Mrs.  Melville. 

"  In  that  case,  Mrs.  Herbert's  power  of  being  useful  to 
them  ceases,  since  Mr.  Villars  has  decided  that  the  eldest 
must  on  no  account  relinquish  the  advantages  of  her  posi 
tion  here,  as  neither  he  nor  Mrs.  Herbert  are  in  circum 
stances  to  ensure  them  future  support  independently  of  their 
own  exertions." 

"  Mr.  Villars  is  certainly  a  very  eccentric  man,"  said 
Mrs.  Melville  ;  "  does  he  suppose  that  a  few  years  could 
make  any  difference  in  Mary's  claims  upon  the  people  of 
H.,  or  their  willingness  to  give  her  their  support,  if  she  were 
then  compelled  to  teach." 

"  Mr.  Villars  is  eccentric,"  'said  Mr.  Melville  ;  "  yet  for 
what  seemed  to  us  strange,  he  has  always  had  some  good 
reason  to  give,  as  I  doubt  not  he  has  now." 

"  Well,  here  come  the  children,"  said  Mrs.  Melville ; 
"  we  shall  soon  hear  their  decision,  and  I  suspect  you  will 
find  that  Mr.  Villars'  limitation  is  a  complete  hinderance  to 
Mrs.  Herbert's  kind  intentions." 

The  door  was  thrown  open  as  Mrs.  Melville  spoke,  and 
the  children,  unconscious  of  a  stranger's  presence,  came 
laughing  and  talking  in.  Even  Ellen  looked  pleased,  which 
I  was  especially  glad  to  see,  as  her  usual  gloomy  counte 
nance  would  have  impressed  a  stranger  unfavorably.  Mrs. 
Melville  led  Mary  and  Ellen  to  Mr.  Wallace,  and  intro 
duced  him  to  them  as  a  friend  of  their  Aunt  Herbert.  To 
their  inquiries  respecting  their  aunt  and  her  family  Mr. 


256  ELLEN    LESLIE. 


Wallace  replied  very  fully.  The  children  having  said 
that  they  had  never  seen  her,  he  described  her  appearance, 
her  manners,  her  character — spoke  of  their  cousins  George 
and  Charles  Herbert,  whom  he  represented  as  spirited, 
manly,  but  kind  and  affectionate  tempered  boys. 

"  And  my  cousin  Lucy  ?"  said  Mary. 

"  Was  one  of  the  loveliest  and  most  engaging  young 
persons  I  ever  saw,  when  she  was  on  earth,"  said  Mr. 
Wallace  ;  "she  is  now,  I  hope,  an  angel  in  heaven." 

"  Is  my  cousin  Lucy  dead  ?"  said  Ellen,  who  had  hith 
erto  been  a  silent  listener. 

"  Yes,  my  child,  she  has  now  been  dead  for  more  than 
two  months,  after  enduring  for  almost  two  years  very  great 
suffering.  During  all  that  time,  though  I  saw  her  very  often, 
I  never  heard  a  complaining  word  from  her.  All  her  grief 
was  for  her  mother.  Even  when  she  was  dying  she 
thought  of  her,  and  the  last  words  we  could  distinguish 
from  her  were,  '  Our  good  heavenly  Father  will  comfort 
you,  mother.'" 

"  Poor  Aunt  Herbert!"  exclaimed  Mary,  touched  with 
sympathy  for  such  a  loss. 

"  Yes,  my  dear  child,"  said  Mr.  Wallace,  "  you  may 
well  pity  her  for  losing  such  a  daughter,  her  only  daugh 
ter  ;  your  Aunt  Herbert  hopes  that  you  will  do  more  than 
pity  her,  that  you  will  send  her  by  me  another  daughter  in 
your  sister  Ellen,  to  whom  she  will  be  just  such  a  mother 
as  she  was  to  Lucy  Herbert.  She  wished  to  have  you  both 
come  to  her  as  her  daughters,  but  your  Uncle  Villars  does 
not  think  it  wise  that  you  should  leave  H.  just  at  present ; 
he  consents,  however,  that  Ellen  should  go  to  her  aunt,  if 
you  are  both  willing." 

From  the  moment  Ellen's  name  was  mentioned,  the  sis 
ters  had  sat  looking  earnestly  into  each  other's  eyes. 

"  Ellen,"  said  Mr.  Wallace,  "  will  you  not  go  with  me, 
and  be  another  Lucy  to  this  good  aunt  ?" 

"  I  could  not  be  like  Lucy — I  am  not  good  enough  ;  and 
I  cannot  leave  Mary — I  cannot  leave  Mary  for  anybody." 

Mary  threw  her  arm  around  Ellen,  and  drew  her  closely 
to  her  side,  answering  all  Mr.  Wallace's  arguments  only 
with  her  tears,  or  a  silent  shake  of  the  head.  Colonel  Mel 
ville  attempted  to  influence  hej,  and  then  she  spoke  :  "  Oh  ! 
Colonel  Melville,  I  cannot  let  Ellen  go :  I  promised  my  mo- 


, 


ELLEN    LESLIE.  257 


ther,  when  I  was  a  very  little  girl,  and  then  I  promised  my 
father  when  he  was  on  his  death-bed,  that  I  never  would 
part  with  Ellen,  and  I  cannot  do  it." 

"  Mary,"  said  Colonel  Melville,  "  I  do  not  wish  you  to 
do  it ;  none  wish  you  to  do  it,  unless  you  feel  it  to  be  not 
only  right  but  desirable,  and  all  I  would  ask  of  you  now  is 
that  you  and  Ellen  too  would  think  before  you  decide  on  a 
question  of  so  much  importance.  As  respects  your  prom 
ise,  you  could  not  have  promised  that  she  should  not  leave 
you,  because  about  that,  you  know,  she  will  one  of  these 
days  have  a  will  of  her  own,  and  you  cannot  prevent  her 
going  from  you  if  she  chooses  it.  Now  Ellen's  home  with 
you  is  not,  I  fear,  a  very  happy  one," — Ellen  colored  and 
looked  down  at  these  words, — "  and  you  have  it  not  in  your 
power  to  make  it  so  ;  and  here  your  kind  aunt  sends  and 
asks  her  to  come  to  her  and  be  her  daughter,  promising  to 
cherish  her  as  her  own  dear  child.  Mrs.  Herbert  will  edu 
cate  Ellen  as  few  are  capable  of  doing,  and  so  enable  her 
to  be  of  use  to  herself  and  to  you  too,  if  the  necessity  for 
your  labors  continue.  And  there  will  be  no  force  exer 
cised  over  Ellen's  wishes  there,  more  than  here.  I  doubt 
not  if,  after  six  months  or  a  year's  trial  of  her  home  there, 
she  should  be  dissatisfied,  and  wish  to  return  to  you,  she 
will  be  permitted  to  do  so." 

"  Will  she,  sir  ? — May  she  come  back  if  she  should  wish 
to  ?"  asked  Mary  quickly,  turning  to  Mr.  Wallace. 

"  Certainly,  my  dear ;  your  aunt's  desire  is  to  make 
Ellen  happy,  and  that  could  not  be  done  by  keeping  her 
against  her  will.  But  I  would  not  have  you  make  up  your 
minds  in  a  hurry — take  to-night  to  think  about  it.  You 
have,  I  hope,  been  taught  to  pray  ;  ask  your  heavenly  Fa 
ther  to  direct  you  to  what  is  best  for  you.  I  intended  to 
set  off  to-morrow  afternoon  on  my  way  home,  but  I  will 
wait  till  the  next  morning  for  Ellen,  if  you  will  give  me 
your  answer  in  the  course  of  the  day,  or  to-morrow." 

And  so  it  was  determined.  The  children  consented  to 
defer  their  decision  till  the  next  day,  and  Colonel  Melville 
advised  that  nothing  more  should  then  be  said  on  the  sub 
ject.  I  saw,  however,  that  though  they  did  not  speak  of  it, 
Mary  and  Ellen  both  thought  of  it ;  for  more  than  once  I 
saw  Mary's  eyes  fill  with  tears  as  they  rested  on  her  sis 
ter,  and  Ellen  herself  perceiving  it  at  one  time,  shook  her 

22* 


258  ELLEN    LESLIE. 


head,  and  said  with  a  smile,  "  You  need  not  be  afraid, 
Mary  ;  I  shall  not  leave  you."  These  thoughts,  however, 
did  not  interfere  with  Ellen's  enjoyment  of  her  supper, 
which,  from  the  appetite  with  which  it  was  eaten,  was,  I 
doubt  not,  the  only  regular  meal  she  had  made  that  day. 


CHAPTER    XI. 

THE  DECISION. 

MR.  WALLACE  .stayed  that  night  at  Colonel  Melville's. 
We  had  the  next  morning  just  assembled  around  the  break- 
fust-table,  when  there  was  a  ring  at  the  door-bell,  so  loud 
and  so  hurried,  that,  surprised  and  startled,  each  one  turn 
ed  towards  the  door  to  watch  for  the  entrance  of  the  ringer. 
The  servant  had  probably  been  as  much  startled  as  we,  for 
she  moved  with  unusual  quickness,  and  scarce  a  minute 
passed  from  the  ring  to  the  entrance  into  the  breakfast  par 
lor  of  Ellen  Leslie,  flushed,  breathless,  and  evidently  agi- 
t;ited.  Without  speaking  to,  almost  without  looking  at  any 
one  else,  she  walked  up  to  Mr.  Wallace,  and  holding  out 
her  hand,  said,  "  I  have  come  to  tell  you,  sir,  that  I  will  go 
with  you." 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  hear  it,  my  dear ;  but  sit  down,  get 
your  breath,  and  then  we  will  talk  about  it." 

"  I  don't  want  to  talk  about  it,"  said  Ellen,  in  an  impa 
tient  tone  ;  "  I  want  to  go.  How  soon  can  we  go,  sir  ?" 

"  This  afternoon  at  five  o'clock,  if  you  can  be  ready  so 
soon." 

"I  am  ready  now,"  Ellen  began,  but  Mrs.  Melville, 
who  had  risen  from  the  table  on  her  coming  in,  now  ap 
proached  her,  and  taking  off  her  bonnet,  insisted  that  she 
should  sit  down,  and  take  s  >:n>'  breakfast  before  she  said 
any  thing  more  about  going.  Ellen  looked  at  the  break 
fast-table,  and  seemed  to  find  some  attraction  in  it,  for  she 
drew  nearer  to  it,  then  suddenly  turning  to  Mrs.  Melville, 
said,  "  But  Mary  does  not  know.  I  must  go  and  tell  Mary." 

"  I  will  send  for  Mary.     Anna,  go  over  to  Mrs.  Mac- 


ELLEN    LESLIE.  259 


lean's,  and  tell  Mary  she  must  come  and  take  her  breakfast 
with  us." 

"  Thank  you,  Mrs.  Melville,"  said  Ellen ;  "I  am  sure 
I  am  much  obliged  to  you,  for  Mrs.  Maclean  would  not  give 
me  any  breakfast  this  morning,  and  poor  Mary  felt  so  badly 
about  it,  that  I  dare  say  she  has  not  eaten  any." 

In  a  moment,  I  saw  the  whole  reason  of  Ellen's  unex 
pected  resolve,  of  her  hurry  and  agitation.  She  had  doubt 
less  refused  to  go  down  to  breakfast — Mrs.  Maclean  had  re 
fused  to  let  her  breakfast  go  up  to  her — angry  words  had 
probably  ensued — Ellen  had  declared  she  would  go  away — 
Mrs.  Maclean,  instead  of  expressing  sorrow  or  apprehen 
sion  at  such  a  threat,  had  hoped  she  would,  and  Ellen,  too 
proud  to  retract,  too  wilful  to  hesitate,  had  started  off  at 
once  ;  and  thus,  the  decision  about  which  she  had  been  ad 
vised  to  think  so  carefully  and  prayerfully,  was  made  in 
a  fit  of  anger,  and  carried  through  for  the  gratification  of 
proud  and  resentful  feeling. 

Anna  Melville  was  gone  a  longer  time  than  was  usually 
found  necessary  for  a  message  to  Mrs.  Maclean's.  Mary 
returned  with  her,  and  her  eyes  showed  that  her  tears  had 
been  just  hastily  wiped  away  as  she  entered  the  parlor. 
Neither  of  the  sisters  ate  much  breakfast,  for  Ellen  was 
still  too  angry  and  Mary  too  sorrowful  to  feel  hungry.  Mrs. 
Melville  placed  Mary  by  her  at  table — Ellen  was  at  the 
other  end — and  was  careful  that  nothing  should  be  said  in 
relation  to  Ellen's  departure  till  breakfast  was  over.  She 
then  took  Mary's  hand,  and  leading  her  into  the  next  room, 
closed  the  door  after  her.  They  were  gone  almost  an  hour, 
and  when  they  came  back,  though  Mary's  eyes  were  red 
and  swollen,  her  countenance  was  much  more  composed. 
Ellen  looked  anxiously  at  her  as  she  entered,  and  going  up 
to  her,  took  her  hand  and  said,  "  Are  you  sorry  I  am  going, 
Mary  ?" 

"  I  am  sorry  and  glad  too,  Ellen,"  said  Mary,  pressing 
her  lips  to  her  sister's  forehead ;  "  sorry  to  part  with  you, 
but  glad,  very  glad  that  you  are  going  to  such  a  good,  kind 
aunt  as  Mrs.  Melville  says  our  Aunt  Herbert  is." 

"  I  do  not  care  so  much  about  that,  for  I  am  sure  she 
cannot  be  more  good  and  kind  than  you  are,  Mary,"  and 
Ellen  passed  her  arm  around  her  sister's  waist,  and  laid 
her  head  affectionately  on  her  shoulder ;  "  but  I  am  very 


260  ELLEN    LESLIE. 


glad  that  I  shall  not  have  to  go  back  to  that  hateful  Mrs. 
Maclean." 

"  Hush — hush,  Ellen.  Mrs.  Maclean  is  quick  in  her 
temper,  but  she  has  been  often  very  kind  to  us,  and  you 
should  not  call  her  hateful." 

"  She  may  be  very  kind  to  you,"  said  Ellen,  "  I  do  not 
know  any  thing  about  that ;  but  I  do  not  call  it  kindness  to 
tell  me  that  she  would  rather  go  without  her  meals  than 
eat  them  with  me,  and  then  to  refuse  to  give  me  my  break 
fast.  I  told  her  I  would  never  darken  her  door  again,  and 
I  never  will.  I  will  not  go  back  even  to  pack  my  trunk  or 
get  my  things." 

Mary  looked  as  if  she  were  about  to  remonstrate  with 
her  sister,  but  Mrs.  Melville  interposed,  saying,  "  It  will 
not  be  at  all  necessary,  Ellen,  that  you  should ;  I  will  go 
over  with  Mary  and  assist  her  in  packing  your  trunk,  and 
get  such  things  as  may  be  necessary  for  you  on  your 
journey,  of  which  I  shall  be  a  better  judge  than  either  of 
you,  as  I  am  an  older  traveller.  In  the  mean  time,  you 
had  better  go  around  and  say  good-by  to  some  of  your  old 
friends  in  H.  Anna  will  go  with  you." 

While  Mrs.  Melville  was  speaking,  Colonel  Melville  and 
Mr.  Wallace,  who  had  walked  out  together  after  breakfast, 
entered. 

"  Well,  my  little  fellow-traveller,"  said  Mr.  Wallace 
cheerfully,  "  will  you  be  ready  at  five  o'clock  ?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Ellen;  then  after  hesitating  a  moment 
she  added,  "  You  say,  sir,  that  if  I  want  to  come  back  to 
Mary  I  can." 

"  Yes,  my  dear,  if  you  want  to  come  back  after  you 
have  been  six  months  with  your  Aunt.  In  a  shorter  time 
than  that  you  could  form  no  judgment  of  what  your  life 
there  would  be ;  but  if  then  you  wish  to  return,  I  am  sure 
that  nothing  will  be  done  to  detain  you." 

"  There,  Mary,  you  hear  that,"  said  Ellen  with  great 
animation  ;  "  by  that  time  Uncle  Villars  will  have  come 
back,  and  then  you  can  leave  that" — Ellen  looked  as  if 
she  wanted  to  say  hateful  again — "  Mrs.  Maclean,  and  we 
will  all,  I  dare  say,  live  together  just  as  we  used  to  do." 

"  Mrs.  Merrill  and  all,"  said  Colonel  Melville  slyly,  for 
he  had  heard  from  Mr.  Villars  something  of  Ellen's  disa 
greements  with  Mrs.  Merrill. 


ELLEN    LESLIE.  261 


Ellen  colored  very  much,  but  after  a  minute's  hesitation, 
she  said,  "  Well,  even  Mrs.  Merrill  was  not  so  bad  as  Mrs. 
Maclean." 

Our  party  now  separated  ;  Mary  and  Mrs.  Melville  went 
io  Mrs.  Maclean's,  and  Ellen  and  Anna  set  out  to  make 
their  visits.  Three  o'clock  brought  us  all  together  again 
for  dinner.  The  flush  had  now  faded  from  Ellen's  cheeks, 
and  it  was  easy  to  see  that  being  no  longer  sustained  by 
anger  or  resentment,  her  heart  had  begun  to  fail  her  at  the 
thought  of  the  approaching  separation  from  her  sister. 
But  there  was  now  no  time  for  the  indulgence  of  feeling. 
Immediately  after  dinner  Ellen's  baggage  was  brought 
over  ;  then  she  had  to  change  her  dress  for  that  in  which 
she  was  to  travel — then  to  have  all  the  arrangements  which 
Mrs.  Melville  and  Mary  had  made  of  those  things  that 
would  be  necessary  to  her  comfort  on,  the  journey  ex 
plained  to  her ;  and  before  this  was  completed  the  carriage 
was  at  the  door,  and  her  adieus  must  be  made.  Ellen 
started  as  she  heard  this  announcement,  and  flung  herself 
into  Mary's  arms,  exclaiming  amidst  sobs  and  tears,  "  Oh 
Mary,  if  you  could  only  go  with  me !  if  you  could  only 
go  with  me,  Mary  !" 

Mary  said  not  a  word,  but  she  folded  Ellen  closely  to 
her  heart,  as  if  to  part  with  her  were  impossible,  and  wept 
over  her  as  if  that  heart  were  breaking.  Anna  and  Emma 
Melville  sobbed  from  sympathy,  and  the  rest  of  us  stood 
around,  silent  and  tearful  spectators  of  the  scene. 

"  My  dear  children,"  said  Mr.  Wallace  at  last,  "  you 
are  needlessly  distressing  yourselves ;  remember  it  is  but  a 
visit  Ellen  is  going  on.  She  shall  come  back,  I  again  prom 
ise  you,  in  six  months,  if  she  desire  to  do  so." 

"  And  Mary,"  said  Colonel  Melville,  going  up  to  her  and 
taking  her  hand,  "  it  will  not  do  to  keep  Mr.  Wallace 
waiting.  For  Ellen's  sake,  my  dear  girl,  control  your 
self." 

Mary  unclasped  her  arms  from  her  sister,  and  as  Mr. 
Wallace  approached  to  lead  Ellen  away  she  looked  im 
ploringly  in  his  face,  and  exclaimed  in  the  most  earnest 
tones,  "  Oh  !  be  good  to  her,  sir,  be  very  good  to  her." 

"  I  will,  my  dear  child,  I  will,"  was  all  that  the  kind  old 
gentleman  could  say. 

A  silent  kiss  to  Ellen  from  each  of  the  party,  and  Mr. 


262  ELLEN    LESLIE. 


Wallace  led  her  out  to  the  carriage.  The  next  moment 
the  sound  of  wheels  told  that  they  were  off.  Mary  had 
stood  listening  for  that  sound.  As  it  fell  upon  her  ear  she 
turned  from  us  into  an  adjoining  room,  and  her  quick, 
heavy  sobs  reached  us  where  we  stood,  showing  that  she 
had  gone  there  to  weep  alone.  We  left  her  undisturbed 
for  some  minutes,  and  then  Mrs.  Melville  went  in  and  talked 
soothingly  and  cheeringly  to  her.  Mary  had  learned  early 
to  control  her  feelings  for  the  sake  of  others,  and  she  soon 
came  out  with  Mrs.  Melville,  looking  and  speaking  calmly, 
though  often,  in  the  course  of  the  evening,  I  saw  a  tear 
steal  down  her  cheek  without  her  seeming  to  notice  it. 
Just  before  night,  Mary  rose  and  took  her  bonnet  to  return 
home.  "  Stay,  Mary,"  said  Mrs.  Melville,  "  you  are  not 
going  to  leave  Kls  so  soon.  I  will  send  over  to  let  Mrs. 
Maclean  know  that  you  will  not  return  to-night,  and  the 
messenger  can  bring  any  thing  you  may  want." 

And  so  Mary  stayed  that  night,  and  the  next  day,  and  a 
week  ;  and  still,  as  she  talked  of  going  home,  new  reasons 
were  found  for  delay.  Her  obliging  temper  and  gentle 
manners  rendered  her  so  pleasing  an  inmate,  that  all  found 
it  painful  to  part  with  her  ;  and  at  last  it  was  arranged 
that  she  should  remain  at  Colonel  Melville's  till  Mr.  Villars 
returned,  continuing  there  to  employ  herself  with  her 
needle  or  pencil,  and  giving  lessons  in  music,  as  she  had 
hitherto  done,  to  a  few  pupils.  Leaving  her  to  be  loved 
and  cherished  by  this  kind  family,  we  will  follow  Ellen  to 
her  new  home. 


CHAPTER    XII. 

NEW   FRIENDS. 

LITTLE  can  be  told  of  Ellen's  journey.  In  ten  minutes 
after  leaving  Colonel  Melville's  she  found  herself  on  board  a 
steamboat,  surrounded  by  a  crowd  of  strangers.  Unaccus 
tomed  to  such  scenes,  she  was  bewildered  by  the  confusion 
and  bustle  around  her,  and  clung  to  Mr.  Wallace  as  if  he 
had  been  a  friend  of  long  years,  instead  of  an  acquaintance 


ELLEN    LESLIE.  263 


of  a  day.  But  so  kind  and  good  was  Mr.  Wallace,  so 
thoughtful  of  Ellen's  comfort,  so  considerate  of  her  feel 
ings,  and  so  indulgent  to  her  wishes,  that  under  any  cir 
cumstances  he  could  not  long  have  seemed  a  stranger  to 
her.  Ellen  had  travelled  very  little,  and  she  soon  began 
to  feel  an  interest  in  what  was  passing  around  her.  Mr. 
Wallace  exerted  himself  to  amuse  her,  pointing  out  to  her 
the  places  they  passed,  or  describing  those  through  which 
their  route  lay.  Thus  engaged,  Ellen's  griefs  were  for 
gotten  till  she  retired  to  her  berth  for  the  night,  and  then 
the  remembrance  of  the  sister,  without  whose  good-night 
kiss  she  had  never  before  slept  since  she  could  remember, 
came  so  vividly  upon  her,  that  bursting  into  tears,  she 
sobbed  herself  to  sleep.  She  was  awakened  early  the  next 
morning  by  the  chambermaid,  who  came,  at  the  request  of 
Mr.  Wallace,  to  assist  her  in  dressing.  From  her  Ellen 
learned  that  they  had  arrived  in  New  York.  Here  Mr. 
Wallace  remained  a  day  and  a  night,  that  he  might  show 
Ellen  something  of  the  largest  city  in  which  she  had  ever 
been,  and  give  her  one  good  night's  rest  before  they  set  out 
on  the  most  fatiguing  part  of  their  journey.  The  next  day 
they  went  by  a  steamboat  to  Albany,  and  from  thence 
travelled  on  the  railroad  or  the  canal  for  three  or  four 
days  and  nights,  passing  thrdugh  several  large  towns,  of 
which  Ellen  saw  nothing  except  the  one  street  that  formed 
part  of  their  road.  It  was  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon 

when  they  entered   the   village   of  G ,  situated  on   a 

small  but  beautiful  lake.  There  Mr.  Wallace  resided,  and 
here  was  the  church  in  which  he  preached.  He  took  her 
to  his  own  house  and  introduced  her  to  his  wife,  a  lady 
with  manners  as  kind  and  countenance  as  pleasing  as  his 
own.  She  placed  some  raspberry  jam  with  bread  and  but 
ter,  both  of  her  own  making,  on  the  table,  and  while  Ellen 
partook  of  it,  Mr.  Wallace  had  his  own  little  carriage  pre 
pared,  and  having  placed  her  baggage  in  it,  called  to  her 
to  take  her  seat  beside  him.  They  were  soon  on  the  way 
to  Mrs.  Herbert's  farm,  which,  though  also  on  the  borders 

of  the  lake,  was  three  miles  distant  from  G .     Ellen 

did  not  talk  much  on  the  way,  for  she  could  think  of  no 
more  questions  to  ask  about  her  Aunt  Herbert  or  her  cous 
ins,  and  she  could  not  talk  of  any  thing  else.  It  was  a 
lovely  afternoon.  Though  still  early  in  May,  the  season 


264  ELLEN    LESLIE. 

was  unusually  forward,  and  the  air  was  soft  and  balmy  as 
June.  As  they  approached  Mrs.  Herbert's  place,  the  road 
descended  to  the  very  edge  of  the  lake.  There  was  not  a 
ripple  on  the  water,  and  its  smooth  surface  glittered  like 
gold  beneath  the  beams  of  the  almost  setting  sun.  Orchards 
and  gardens  were  full  of  bloom,  and  the  long  low  farm 
house,  which  was  so  surrounded  with  trees  that  you  scarce 
saw  it  till  you  had  reached  the  very  door,  looked  like  the 
abode  of  peace  and  gentleness.  Two  boys  who  were  fish 
ing  in  the  lake  from  its  bank,  about  fifty  yards  from  the 
house,  were  the  only  persons  in  sight.  When  they  first 
saw  the  carriage,  they  stood  looking  steadily  at  it  for  a  few 
minutes,  as  if  to  ascertain  whose  it  was,  then  dropping  their 
fishing  rods,  ran  towards  the  house. 

"  There  they  go  to  give  notice  of  our  coming.  Poor 
Charley,  George  has  left  him  far  behind.  How  hard  he 
tries  to  get  up  with  his  brother !  Suppose  we  stop  and  take 
him  up,"  said  the  good-natured  Mr.  Wallace,  at  the  same 
time  checking  his  horse  and  standing  up  in  the  carriage  to 
beckon  to  Charles. 

The  tired  boy  gladly  obeyed  the  summons,  having  only 
one  narrow  field  and  a  fence  between  him  and  the  road. 

"  There,  Charley,"  said  Mr.  Wallace  as  he  helped  him 
up  the  side  of  the  carriage  and  placed  him  by  Ellen,  "  you 
have  been  the  first  to  see  cousin  Ellen,  if  George  has  car 
ried  the  news  of  her  coming  to  mamma." 

"  Oh !  cousin  Ellen,"  said  Charles,  "  how  glad  I  am  you 
have  come,  it  will  make  mamma  so  happy  !" 

Ellen  looked  with  surprise  upon  her  cousin  Charles,  he 
was  so  much  younger  and  more  delicate  than  she  had  ex 
pected  to  see  him.  Mr.  Wallace  had  said  that  the  eldest 
of  Mrs.  Herbert's  sons  was  thirteen  years  old,  and  Ellen 
had  forgotten  to  ask  the  age  of  the  other,  but  she  had  sup 
posed  him  to  be  nearly  if  not  quite  twelve.  He  had  said 
too  that  they  were  manly,  and  Ellen  had  concluded  that 
they  must  be  very  large  for  their  age,  and  very  strong  and 
robust.  But  Charles,  though  really  ten  years  old,  looked 
scarcely  eight,  he  was  so  small,  fair,  and  delicate,  having 
always  had  very  feeble  health.  Yet  he  was  manly  in  his 
feelings,  and  so  ambitious  to  equal  his  brother  George's  ex 
ploits,  that  he  would  do  many  things  that  some  older  and 
stronger-looking  boys  would  not  have  attempted. 


ELLEN    LESLIE.  265 


Ellen  had  just  recovered  her  surprise,  and  decided  that 
she  liked  Charles  better  as  he  was,  with  his  light  brown 
curls,  his  fair  childish  face,  and  bright  laughing  blue  eyes, 
than  she  would  have  done  if  he  had  been  a  great,  bluster 
ing  boy,  when  the  carriage  stopped  at  the  door  of  the  house, 
where  already  stood  George,  flushed  and  panting  with  his 
race,  and  Mrs.  Herbert.  Ellen  was  never  very  slow  in 
determining  the  feelings  with  which  she  would  regard  any 
one,  and  she  often  afterwards  said,  that  she  loved  her  Aunt 
Herbert  as  soon  as  she  looked  upon  her.  Few  faces  were 
so  well  calculated  to  produce  such  an  impression  as  was 
Mrs.  Herbert's.  She  was  in  deep  mourning,  and  wore  one 
of  those  close  plain  caps  commonly  called  widow's  caps, 
under  which  her  brown  hair,  being  parted  in  the  middle  of 
the  forehead,  was  put  smoothly  back  behind  the  ears.  The 
upper  part  of  her  face  was  serious  in  its  expression,  but  the 
mouth,  if  it  did  not  actually  smile  always,  looked  so  gentle 
and  pleasant,  that  you  thought  it  was  going  to  smile. 
When  Ellen  first  saw  her,  however,  she  was  actually  smi 
ling,  though  tears  were  in  her  eyes,  as  again  and  again  she 
pressed  her  niece  to  her  heart,  and  kissing  her  tenderly, 
thanked  her  for  coming  to  her,  and  called  her  her  daughter 
Ellen. 

"  Cousin  Ellen,"  said  George,  who  looked  just  as  Ellen 
had  expected,  tall,  and  stout,  and  sun-burned,  "  Cousin  El 
len,  we  are  very  glad  to  see  you." 

"  Not  cousin  Ellen — sister  Ellen,  my  son ;  you  are  all 
oiy  children  now,"  said  Mrs.  Herbert,  as  again  she  folded 
Ellen  in  her  arms. 

"  You  must  always  live  with  us  then,"  said  Charles ; 
"  we  shall  not  let  you  go  away  again." 

Ellen,  half  bewildered  among  so  many  new  claimants  of 
her  affection,  had  scarce  spoken  a  word  in  reply  to  their 
greetings.  She  now  looked  around  for  Mr.  Wallace.  He 
saw  the  look,  and  understood  it. 

"  Stay,  stay,  Ch'arles,  it  takes  two,  you  know,  to  make  a 
bargain,  and  I  have  already  promised  that  if  Ellen  wish  it 
she  shall  go  back  in  six  months  to  her  sister  Mary — from 
whom,  I  assure  you,  it  was  no  easy  matter  to  get  her  away. 
So  if  you  would  keep  her,  you  must  make  her  love  you 
so  much  in  six  months  that  she  will  not  choose  to  leave 
you." 

23 


266  ELLEN    LESLIE. 


"  So  we  will,"  said  Charles,  "  so  we  will ;  and  we'll 
bring  sister  Mary  here  too,  mamma — won't  we  ?" 

"  I  hope  so,  my  son ;  for  Mary,  too,  I  consider  as  my 
daughter,  and  would  gladly  have  had  her  come  now,  if  Mr. 
Villars  had  consented." 

Ellen  looked  gratefully  at  her  aunt,  and  began  to  doubt 
whether  she  ever  should  wish  to  leave  her. 

Ellen  seemed  so  much  fatigued  after  the  first  excitement 
of  her  arrival  was  over,  that  Mrs.  Herbert  had  tea  prepared 
immediately,  and  directly  after  it  she  led  Ellen  to  her 
chamber.  This  was  a  small  room  opening  into  her  own. 
It  was  furnished  very  plainly,  as  was  indeed  every  room 
in  Mrs.  Herbert's  house ;  but  nothing  could  be  more  neat 
than  its  appearance,  with  its  clean  white  window-curtains 
and  coverlet.  Mrs.  Herbert  assisted  Ellen  to  undress  her 
self,  and  when  she  was  ready  to  lie  down  she  kissed  her 
tenderly,  saying,  "  Good-night,  my  love  :  you  will  not  for- 

fet  before  you  sleep  to  thank  our  kind  heavenly  Father 
>r  bringing  you  in  safety  to  us.     We  are  early  risers 
here,  but  I  shall  not  wake  you  to-morrow,  for  you  want 
rest." 

Ellen  lay  down  with  very  pleasant  thoughts  of  her  new 
home,  but  all  thoughts  were  soon  forgotten  in  a  sound  sleep. 


CHAPTER    XIII. 

NEW   THOUGHTS. 

ELLEN  slept  so  soundly  that  for  a  long  time  she  did  not 
even  dream,  or  at  least  she  did  not  remember  any  dreams ; 
but  at  last  she  thought  she  was  back  again  at  H.,  sitting 
with  Mary  in  their  own  room,  and  Mary  was  sewing  and 
singing  as  she  sewed,  • 

But  I  will  be  a  bee,  to  sup 
Pure  honey  from  each  flow'ry  cap ; 
Busy  and  pleased  around  I'll  fly, 
And  treasure  win  from  earth  and  sky. 

And  Ellen  tried  to  sing  with  Mary,  but  in  spite  of  all  her 
efforts  she  could  not  make  a  sound,  and  she  woke  with  her 


ELLEN    LESLIE.  267 


fruitless  exertions.  The  sun  was  shining  brightly  on  her 
window  curtains,  and  she  soon  saw  she  was  not  at  Mrs. 
Maclean's ;  yet  still  she  heard  singing,  and  it  was  the  very 
same  tune  which  she  had  fancied  in  her  dream,  but  there 
were  several  voices,  and  Mary's  was  not  among  them.  The 
music  ceased  very  soon  after  she  awoke,  and  Ellen  lay 
wondering  who  had  been  singing  so  early,  and  whether 
they  sang  the  words  as  well  as  the  tune  of  Mary's  song. 
She  had  been  awake  fifteen,  or  perhaps  twenty  minutes, 
when  her  door  was  cautiously  opened,  and  Mrs.  Herbert 
entered  very  softly. 

"  Oh — you  are  awake,  Ellen,"  she  said,  as  Ellen  raised 
her  head  from  her  pillow  to  see  who  was  entering :  "  I  have 
looked  in  upon  you  once  or  twice  this  morning,  but  you 
were  asleep,  and  I  would  not  awake  you." 

"  But  I  have  been  awake  some  time  now,  Aunt  Herbert, 
and  I  want  to  know  who  it  is  that  has  been  singing,  '  I 
will  not  be  a  butterfly  ;'  I  was  dreaming  about  Mary's 
singing  it,  and  when  I  first  awoke  and  heard  it,  I  thought 
she  was  here." 

"  You  did  not  hear  those  words,  my  dear,  but  only  the 
tune,  which  the  boys  and  I  were  singing  to  our  morning 
hymn." 

"  Morning  hymn  ?"  repeated  Ellen,  looking  inquiringly 
at  her  aunt,  as  she  slowly  proceeded  in  dressing  herself. 

"  Is  that  a  strange  thing  to  you,  Ellen  ?"  asked  Mrs. 
Herbert  with  a  smile ;  "  I  hope  you  will  be  up  to-morrow 
in  time  to  join  us  in  singing  it :  but  now  your  breakfast  is 
ready,"  and  Mrs.  Herbert  led  the  way  to  the  room  in 
which  they  had  taken  tea  the  evening  before,  where  Ellen 
found  George  and  Charles.  They  greeted  her  very  affec 
tionately,  begged  permission  to  call  her  Ellen,  because 
they  should  then  feel  more  at  home  with  her,  than  if  they 
were  obliged  to  say  cousin  or  even  sister  Ellen,  and  be 
fore  they  had  risen  from  breakfast  had  made  many  plans 
for  her  amusement.  Charles  would  have  carried  her  off  at 
once  to  see  his  puppy,  but  Mrs.  Herbert  stopped  them. 

"  I  must  have  Ellen,"  she  said,  "  a  little  while  to  my 
self  this  morning.  This  afternoon  she  shall  go  with  you, 
if  she  like." 

After  the  boys  had  gone  out  Mrs.  Herbert  went  with 
Ellen  to  her  room,  and  assisted  her  to  put  it  in  neat  order. 


268  ELLEN    LESLIE. 


When  this  was  done,  Ellen  in  turn  assisted  her  aunt  in  set 
ting  the  breakfast  things  away  and  arranging  the  parlor. 

As  Ellen  was  rather  of  an  indolent  nature,  and  Mary 
had  ever  been  ready  to  do  for  her  what  she  did  not  like  to 
do  for  herself,  she  had  scarcely  ever  been  actively  employ 
ed  for  so  long  a  time ;  yet  she  did  not  feel  at  all  tired,  but 
found  herself  more  than  once,  when  her  aunt  Herbert  was 
silent,  humming, 

Busy  and  pleased  around  I'll  fly, 
And  treasure  win  from  earth  and  sky. 

When  Mrs.  Herbert's  domestic  arrangements  were  com 
pleted,  she  said,  "  Now,  my  love,  you  have  been  of  great 
service  to  me,  and  I  must  try  to  be  of  some  service  to  you. 
I  cannot  expect  you  to  study  to-day,  but  we  will  unpack 
your  books,  and  arrange  some  plan  for  your  studies,  which 
you  will  then  be  able  to  commence  to-morrow." 

When  this  had  been  done,  it  still  wanted  two  hours  to 
the  dinner  time,  and  Mrs.  Herbert  proposed  that  Ellen 
should  sit  by  her  and  assist  her  with  some  needle-work. 
"  And  then,"  she  added,  "  we  shall  be  able  to  talk  more 
quietly  than  we  could  do  while  moving  about.  There  are 
many  things  that  you  can  tell  me,  of  which  I  am  anxious 
to  hear." 

Ellen  was  much  more  willing  to  tell  than  she  was  to 
sew,  but  she  was  not  yet  sufficiently  at  ease  with  her  aunt 
Herbert  to  object  to  any  thing  she  proposed,  and  she  ac 
cordingly  found  her  thimble  and  scissors,  and  seating  her 
self  by  her  aunt's  side,  took  the  work  she  gave  her  without 
any  expression  of  dissatisfaction. 

"  And  now,  Ellen,"  said  Mrs.  Herbert,  when  the,  work 
had  all  been  so  explained  that  there  were  no  more  ques 
tions  to  ask  about  it,  "I  want  you  to  tell  me  something 
about  Mary — is  she  like  you  ?" 

"Mary  like  me!"  exclaimed  Ellen;  "oh  no,  Aunt  Her 
bert,  Mary  is  more  like  you  than  she  is  like  me." 

"  Indeed  !  does  she  look  like  me  ?" 

"  Well,  I  do  not  mean  exactly  that  she  looks  like  you, 
but  she  looks  pleased  like  you,  and  moves  about  quietly, 
and  never  seems  to  be  out  of  patience :  everybody  loves 
Mary." 

There  was  something  in  the  tone  in  which  these  last 


ELLEN    LESLIE.  2ti  S 


words  were  said  that  made  Mrs.  Herbert  raise  her  eyes 
from  her  work  and  look  at  her  niece.  Ellen  caught  the 
glance,  colored,  and  hung  her  head. 

"  And  everybody  loves  Ellen  too,  I  hope,"  said  Mrs. 
Herbert,  with  a  smile. 

Ellen's  head  drooped  yet  lower,  and  she  did  not  answer. 

"  Speak,  my  love  ;  you  were  not  jealous  I  hope  of  the 
love  which  was  given  to  Mary  ?" 

"  Oh  no,  Aunt  Herbert,  I  was  not  jealous  of  Mary ;  that 
is,  I  did  not  want  people  not  to  love  Mary,  but  I  did  wish 
that  they  would  love  me  too,  and  not  to  be  so  cross  to  me." 

"  Poor  child,"  said  Mrs.  Herbert,  feelingly,  "  was  every 
one  cross  to  you  ?" 

"  No,  not  every  one.  Mary  never  was  cross  to  me — 
nor  poor  papa — nor  Uncle  Villars ;  though  Uncle  Villars 
did  not  love  me  as  much  as  he  did  Mary." 

"  And  why  was  this,  Ellen  ?  Did  you  think  there  was 
any  reason  for  it  ?" 

Mrs.  Herbert  spoke  very  gently,  but  again  Ellen  hung 
her  head  and  looked  abashed. 

"  Do  not  be  ashamed  to  tell  me,  my  love,  what  you 
thought  was  the  cause.  I  love  you,  Ellen,  very  much, 
and  all  the  more  for  telling  me  so  freely  what  you  think 
and  feel.  I  think  it  a  sad  thing — a  very  great  evil,  not  to 
be  loved ;  and  perhaps  the  cause  of  this  in  your  own  case 
may  be  one  which,  if  I  knew  it,  I  could  help  you  to  re 
move." 

"  Oh  no,  Aunt  Herbert,  nobody  can  help  me,  for  it  is 
just  my  own  bad  temper." — Ellen  was  now  weeping,  and 
it  was  amidst  sobs  that  she  continued — "  I  cannot  help  it ; 
I  am  sure  I  try  to  be  good,  and  to  please  people  and  to 
make  them  love  me.  I  do  think  I  tiy  a  great  deal  harder 
than, Mary  does,  and  that  makes  me  feel  so  much  worse 
when  they  say  unkind  things  to  me  ;  and  then  I  cannot  be 
still  like  Mary,  but  I  get  angry  and  talk  back  to  them,  and 
that  makes  them  dislike  me  more  and  more,  and  I  am  sure 
it  is  not  my  fault,  for  I  cannot  help  it." 

Mrs.  Herbert  laid  aside  her  work,  put  her  arm  around 
Ellen  and  drew  her  to  her  side,  and  laying  her  head  upon 
her  shoulder,  spoke  soothingly  and  tenderly  to  her,  till  she 
ceased  to  weep.  When  Ellen's  sobs  were  hushed,  she 
said,  "  My  dear  child,  Aunt  Herbert  knows  how  you  feel 

23* 


270  ELLEN    LESLIE. 


and  how  to  feel  for  you,  for  she  has  suffered  just  as  you  do, 
from  just  such  a  bad  temper." 

"  You,  aunt  Herbert !"  exclaimed  Ellen,  raising  her  head 
and  looking  at  her  aunt  with  surprise,  "  did  you  ever  have 
a  bad  temper  ?" 

"  I  had  just  such  a  temper,  Ellen,  as  you  describe  ;  wish 
ing  to  be  loved,  anxious  to  please,  so  anxious  that  I  was 
willing  to  do  any  thing  for  it,  except  control  my  hasty  feel 
ings  or  keep  back  my  rash  words." 

"  And  how  did  you  get  over  it,  aunt  Herbert  ?" 

"  The  first  step  towards  my  deliverance  from  the  evil, 
Ellen,  was  feeling  that  it  was  my  own  fault." 

Ellen's  face  turned  very  red,  and  she  answered  quickly, 
"  How  can  it  be  my  fault  when  I  try  so  hard  to  help  it  ?" 

"  My  child,  the  fault  must  lie  somewhere  j  whose  is  it  if 
it  is  not  yours  ?" 

"  I  didn't  make  myself,"  said  Ellen,  sullenly. 

"  And  would  you  say,  my  dear  Ellen,  that  the  fault  is 
His  who  made  you  ?" 

Ellen  was  silent — she  dared  not  say  this  with  her  lips — 
yet  it  was  the  language  of  her  heart. 

"  Ellen,  since  you  began  to  notice  your  bad  temper  has 
it  not  become  worse  ? — are  you  not  more  easily  made 
angry  now  than  you  were  formerly  ?" 

Mrs.  Herbert  paused,  but  Ellen  did  not  answer. 

"Speak,  my  dear  Ellen,  you  must  place  confidence  in 
me,  if  you  would  have  my  help  in  getting  rid  of  this  evil. 
Is  it  not  as  I  say,  Ellen?" 

"  Yes,"  whispered  Ellen,  again  hiding  her  face  on  her 
aunt's  shoulder. 

"  Whose  fault  has  this  been,  Ellen  ? — has  God,  do  you 
think,  continued  to  make  your  temper  worse  and  worse  ?" 

"  I  have  lived  with  such  cross,  ill-natured  people," 
murmured  Ellen. 

"  Mary  has  lived  with  the  same  people  ;  has  it  had  the 
same  effect  on  her  ?" 

Ellen  was  silent. 

"  My  dear  child,"  said  Mrs.  Herbert,  "  I  have  not  asked 
these  questions  to  give  you  pain.  It  is  not  to  mortify  you, 
but  to  give  you  hope,  that  I  would  have  you  feel  the  fault 
to  be  yours,  for  your  own  fault  you  may  correct ;  not  so 
with  the  faults  of  others.  And  now,  having  convinced 


ELLEN    LESLIE.  271 


you,  I  hope,  that  the  fault  is  your  own,  the  next  question 
is,  what  has  been  your  fault — shall  I  tell  you  this,  my 
love  ?" 

Mrs.  Herbert  spoke  so  gently — so  affectionately,  that 
Ellen  could  not  be  angry.  She  answered  very  softly,  "  If 
you  please." — "  What  this  fault  was,  Ellen,  your  own 
words  have  shown.  You  say  you  have  loved  others  and 
tried  to  please  them,  but  you  said  nothing  of  loving  God, 
and  trying  to  please  Him.  You  do  not  seem  to  have 
thought  that  the  angry  feelings  and  hasty  words  which  dis 
pleased  your  friends  were  an  offence  to  Him.  You  have 
thought  of  your  temper  as  an  unhappiness  for  which  you 
were  to  be  pitied,  rather  than  as  a  great  wrong  for  which 
you  were  to  be  blamed.  You  have  even  had  hard  thoughts 
of  God,  as  if  he  had  caused  this  unhappiness.  Think  of 
His  kindness  and  love  to  you,  Ellen,  and  be  ashamed  of 
such  thoughts.  Who  but  He  gave  you  so  tender  a  father 
— so  kind  a  sister  as  Mary — and  so  generous  a  friend  as 
your  Uncle  Villars  ?  Look  up  at  the  sky  and  see  the  sun 
which  He  has  placed  there  to  give  light  and  warmth — look 
around  you  on  the  earth,  and  see  the  flowers  which  clothe 
it  with  beauty  and  the  fruits  which  it  produces  for  your 
gratification — and  be  humbled,  Ellen,  that  you  should  have 
thought  this  good  God  unkind  ?"  Mrs.  Herbert  paused, 
for  she  was  overcome  for  a  moment  by  her  own  emotions. 
— "  Do  you  not  feel  His  love,  Ellen  ?"  she  asked  at 
length. 

"  But  he  did  not  make  all  these  good  and  beautiful  things 
for  me,"  said  Ellen,  speaking  in  a  whisper,  as  if  she  were 
ashamed  of  her  own  cavils. 

"  If  not  made  for  your  gratification,  Ellen,  why  were 
you  created  with  senses  to  enjoy  them — why  have  you 
eyes  to  see,  the  sense  of  smell  for  this  delicious  perfume 
which  the  breeze  is  bringing  to  us,  and  taste  to  find 
pleasure  in  your  food  ? — But  the  half  of  His  love  I  have 
not  yet  told  you.  Do  you  not  remember,  Ellen,  that 
knowing  you  to  be  weak — seeing  that  you  would  meet 
trials  and  temptations  in  the  world — that  you  would  com 
mit  great  faults  and  endure  great  sufferings  in  consequence 
of  those  faults — He  sent  His  son  into  the  world  to  show  you 
how  these  trials  might  be  borne  and  these  temptations  re 
sisted,  to  teach  you  that  He  loved  you  even  when  you  were 


272  ELLEN    LESLIE. 


sinning  and  suffering,  and  if  you  would  but  love  Him  in  re 
turn  and  strive  to  please  Him,  He  would  aid  your  weak 
efforts,  would  pardon  your  sins,  and  give  you  peace  here 
and  heaven  hereafter  ?  And  it  is  in  this  way,  dear  Ellen, 
that  you  can  alone  hope  to  get  rid  of  that  bad,  sinful 
temper  which  has  caused  you  so  much  pain.  Think  much 
of  the  goodness  and  love  of  your  kind  heavenly  Father, 
that  you  may  love  and  strive  to  please  Him.  This  will 
make  you  watchful  over  the  first  beginnings  of  evil,  the 
first  rising  up  of  angry  feelings  in  your  heart,  and  you 
will  strive  then  to  overcome  them  before  they  have  become 
strong  by  indulgence.  Yet  with  all  your  efforts,  Ellen,  I 
do  not  promise  you  that  you  will  not  often  fail ;  but  as  you 
learn  to  trust  in  the  love  of  God,  you  will  acknowledge 
your  faults  to  Him  even  as  you  would  to  an  earthly  father, 
and  humbly  ask  Him  to  pardon  and  help  you  :  and  He 
will,  Ellen, — He  will  help  you,  and  through  His  help  you 
shall  conquer  all  evil." 

Mrs.  Herbert  was  silent,  and  Ellen  remained  for  some 
time  with  her  face  concealed,  neither  speaking  nor  moving  ; 
at  length  she  whispered,  "  And  you  will  try  to  love  me, 
Aunt  Herbert,  though  I  have  told  you  how  bad  I  am." 

"  I  love  you,  dear  child,  a  thousand  times  better  for 
having  told  me,  and  I  will  never  love  you  less  for  faults 
which  you  honestly  acknowledge  and  earnestly  strive  to 
correct." 

"And  you  will  not  tell  George  and  Charles." 

"  Never :  but  now  go  to  your  room,  and  wash  your 
face,  lest  that  should  tell  them  that  you  have  been  griev- 
ing." 

Ellen  obeyed,  and  she  removed  the  redness  from  her 
face,  but  the  thoughts  and  feelings  which  her  Aunt  had 
awakened,  did  not  depart  from  her  mind.  Ellen  had  heard 
of  God's  goodness  and  love  before,  but  never  had  they  been 
so  urged  upon  her — never  had  she  been  made  so  to  think 
about  them  and  to  feel  them;  and  the  impression  was 
abiding,  for  her  Aunt  was  ever  "ready  to  awaken  her  ob 
servation  to  new  proofs  of  that  goodness  and  love.  She 
had  now  a  new  reason  to  endeavor  to  conquer  her  faults, — 
the  desire  to  do  right — to  obey  God  and  please  Him. 

It  must  not  be  supposed,  however,  that  any  lesson,  how 
ever  well  remembered  and  deeply  impressed,  could  over- 


ELLEN    LESLIE.  273 


come  in  a  day  or  a  week,  or  even  a  month,  the  habits  of 
Ellen's  whole  life.  On  the  contrary,  she  had  yet  often  to 
exclaim,  with  bitter  sorrow,  "  Oh,  Aunt  Herbert !  do  you 
think  I  ever  shall  do  right  ?"  But  she  never  now  thought 
it  was  the  fault  of  others  when  she  did  wrong  ;  and  although 
on  such  occasions  she  was  grieved,  more  grieved  than  for 
merly,  she  never  long  felt  hopeless,  for  she  remembered 
that  her  Aunt  Herbert  had  once  been  like  her,  and  that  the 
same  heavenly  Father  who  had  aided  her  aunt  to  overcome 
the  evil  of  her  nature,  loved  her,  and  would  hear  her  pray 
ers.  Yet  she  still  had  many  terrible  sufferings  to  endure 
from  the  evil  which  she  had  so  long  indulged,  and  some  of 
these  I  will  relate  to  you. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

PASSION,    AND     ITS     FRUITS. 

I  HAVE  said  that  Charles  Herbert's  health  had  never  been 
very  strong.  He  had  in  consequence  been  a  petted  child, 
and  though  Mrs.  Herbert  never  failed  to  rebuke  any  im 
proper  temper  ever  manifested  by  him,  she  never  checked 
his  mirth  or  playfulness,  even  when  something  of  the  spirit 
of  mischief  entered  into  it.  Thus,  while  Charles  was  one 
of  the  most  amiable  and  affectionate  boys  in  the  world,  he 
was  often,  to  a  person  as  irritable  as  Ellen,  one  of  the  most 
provoking. 

"  What  shall  be  done  to  the  owner  of  this  ?"  exclaimed 
Charles,  as,  running  up  the  steps  to  the  piazza  in  which 
Ellen  was  standing,  about  ten  days  after  her  arrival,  he 
held  up  a  letter  addressed  in  very  legible  characters  to 
"  Miss  Ellen  Leslie,"  and  what  was  more,  in  characters 
which  Ellen  knew  to  be  Mary's.  "  What  shall  be  done  to 
the  owner  of  this  ?"  Then  answering  his  own  interroga 
tory,  "  She  shall  speak  a  speech,  sing  a  song,  or  tell  a 
riddle." 

"  Charles,  give  me  my  letter,"  said  Ellen,  trying  to  get 
it  from  him  ;  but  he  eluded  her  grasp,  and  springing  on  the 
bannister  surrounding  the  piazza,  held  it  far  beyond  her 


274  ELLEN    LESLIE. 


reach,  while  he  continued  to  answer  her  demands  with, 
"  The  speech,  the  song,  or  the  riddle,  Ellen.  Surely,  a 
letter  is  worth  one  of  them,  and  such  a  long  letter  too,  the 
lines  are  so  close." 

While  he  ran  on  thus,  Ellen,  who  had  commenced  with 
entreaties,  proceeded  to  commands,  angry  threatenings,  and 
bitter  accusations. 

"  I'll  tell  your  mother,  sir,  that  you  took  my  letter  from 
me ;  stole  it,  for  it  is  stealing  to  take  other  people's  things. 
I  would  not  be  so  mean  ;  but  I  will  see  what  she  will  say 
to  you,  sir  ;  I  will  see  if  she  will  let  you  take  every  thing 
away  from  me,  and  ill  treat  me,  just  because  I  have  not 
anybody  to  take  my  part,"  and  overcome  by  passion,  Ellen 
burst  into  tears. 

In  an  instant  Charles  was  at  her  side.  "  Oh,  Ellen, 
don't  cry  ;  here  is  your  letter.  I  am  sure,  Ellen,  I  did  not 
mean  to  make  you  feel  so  bad  by  my  foolish  play  ;  take 
your  letter,  Ellen." 

"  I  won't  take  it,"  said  Ellen,  passionately,  "  I  won't 
take  it.  I  know  why  you  give  it  to  me  now ;  you  think 
your  mother  is  coming,  and  you  don't  want  me  to  tell  her ; 
but  I  will,  sir." 

Ellen  had  not  time  to  say  more,  for  Mrs.  Herbert  stood 
before  them. 

"  Ellen — Charles,  what  is  the  matter  ?" 

"  Charles  took  my  letter,  and  would  not  give  it  to  me, 
though  I  begged  him,  till  he  thought  you  were  coming,  and 
then  he  wanted  me  to  take  it,  that  I  might  not  tell  you ;  but 
I  would  not  take  it  from  him,  for  I  think  it  is  very  hard  if 
he  is  just  to  take  my  things,  and  keep  them  as  long  as  he 
likes,  and  then  give  them  back  to  me,  and  never  get  even 
a  scolding  for  it,"  was  Ellen's  passionate  reply. 

"  Mother,  you  know  that  I  was  only  playing  with  Ellen," 
was  the  explanation  of  Charles. 

"  It  is  not  a  kind  spirit  that  finds  sport  in  another's  suf 
fering,  Charles." — Charles  hung  his  head,  pained  and 
abashed  by  his  mother's  rebuke. — "  There  is  your  letter, 
Ellen.  I  think  I  may  promise  for  Charles  that  he  will 
never  again  pain  you  and  displease  his  mother  by  such 
thoughtless  conduct,  and  we  will  forgive  him  now." 

But  Ellen's  anger  had  been  too  thoroughly  aroused  to 
be  so  easily  appeased,  and  many  hours  had  passed  before 


ELLEN    LES.JE.  275 


her  face  lost  its  resentful  expression,  or  her  manners  their 
cold  reserve  towards  Charles. 

Not  far  from  Mrs.  Herbert's  house  the  lake  set  up  into 
the  land,  forming  a  deep  but  narrow  bay,  and  dividing  her 
farm  into  two  almost  equal  parts.  Across  this  bay  was 
laid  a  rude  bridge  only  two  planks  in  width,  and  with  no 
defence  but  a  slender  hand-rail  on  the  sides.  It  was  of 
course  never  used  by  horsemen,  but  was  sufficiently  safe 
for  foot-passengers.  On  the  farther  side  of  this  bay  lived 
the  man  who  attended  to  Mrs.  Herbert's  farming  business. 
The  dairy  had  also  been  built  near  his  house,  for  the  con 
venience  of  his  wife,  who  attended  to  it.  To  this  dairy  was 
a  favorite  walk  with  the  children,  the  good-natured  Mrs. 
Smith  never  failing  to  treat  them  to  some  of  its  products. 

Ellen  had  been  about  five  weeks  with  her  aunt  when 
she  and  Charles  set  out  together  on  this  walk.  The  sun 
was  only  an  hour  high,  yet  it  was  still  warm,  and  she 
sauntered  slowly  along.  Charles  had  lately  become  very 
expert  in  walking  on  stilts.  As  this  was  a  very  recent 
accomplishment,  he  was  still  very  vain  of  it,  and  might 
generally  be  seen  looking  over  the  heads  of  people  taller 
than  himself.  Especially  did  Charles  pride  himself  on  his 
ability  to  go  on  stilts  over  the  bridge,  which  was  in  reality 
as  safe  for  him  as  the  dry  ground,  so  long  as  he  kept 
steadily  on.  On  the  afternoon  of  which  we  are  speaking, 
he  was  elevated  as  usual,  and  would  at  one  time  stride 
rapidly  on  before  Ellen,  and  then  turn  and  come  slowly 
back  to  her,  and  then  wheel  around  and  around  her,  ever, 
as  he  went  and  came,  discoursing,  not  of  what  he  could  do, 
but  of  what  his  brother  George  could,  for  proud  as  he 
might  be  of  his  own  powers,  Charles  was  always  ready  to 
acknowledge  that  George  excelled  him.  Ellen's  temper 
was  perhaps  a  little  influenced  by  the  sultry  weather. 
However  this  may  be,  she  certainly  did  not  feel  very 
pleasantly,  and  had  more  than  once  during  their  walk 
evinced  considerable  impatience.  Several  times  she  begged 
that  Charles  would  not  wheel  around  her  so,  as  it  made 
her  dizzy — that  he  would  keep  farther  off,  as  she  was  afraid 
of  his  stilts  striking  her — and  at  length  she  exclaimed, 
"  Do,  Charles,  talk  about  something  else  besides  what 
George  can  do.  I  am  sick  of  hearing  of  it.  I  wonder  if 
there  is  any  thing  that  you  think  he  cannot  do." 


276  ELLEN    LESLIE. 


Charles  was  vexed  at  this  disrespect  to  George,  and 
there  was  a  little  malice  in  the  reply,  "  Yes,  I  don't  think 
George  can  write  poetry,  as  some  other  people  I  know  can. 
I  found  some  poetry  this  morning,"  he  added,  looking 
archly  at  Ellen,  "  and  I  am  sure  you  will  like  it  when  you 
see  it  published  in  the  G Mirror." 

Ellen's  face  became  crimson.  Did  any  of  my  young 
readers  ever  attempt  to  write  poetry  ?  If  so,  tney  have 
only  to  remember  how  carefully  they  concealed  their  first 
effort,  how  much  abashed  they  were  at  the  idea  of  its  being 
seen,  how  sensitive  to  the  least  appearance  of  ridicule,  to 
understand  the  cause  of  Ellen's  blush.  Ellen  had  made 
more  than  one  effort,  but  there  was  only  one  of  her  produc 
tions  which  she  had  ever  thought  of  sufficient  importance 
to  preserve.  This  was  a  piece  addressed  to  Mary,  which 
she  had  kept  with  the  hope  that  she  might  one  day  gather 
courage  to  send  it  to  her.  She  had  supposed  it  safe  at  the 
very  bottom  of  the  black  silk  bag  which  she  carried  on  her 
arm,  but  she  now  began  to  fear,  from  the  manner  of  Charles, 
that  he  had  in  some  way  got  it.  In  this  she  was  right. 
Ellen  had  not  been  so  careful  as  she  supposed  in  putting 
the  paper  into  her  bag,  and  afterwards,  in  drawing  her 
handkerchief  out,  it  had  fallen  unperceived  upon  the  floor. 
Here  Charles  had  found  it.  He  read  it,  and  saw  by  the 
handwriting  it  was  Ellen's.  Remembering  the  letter  scene, 
he  faithfully  resolved  not  to  tease  her  about  it,  but  after 
he  should  have  shown  it  to  George,  to  give  it  to  her  without 
saying  a  word  of  his  acquaintance  with  the  contents. 
Ellen  had  vexed  him  now,  however,  and  it  was  impossible 
to  avoid  making  use  of  such  an  excellent  mode  of  punish 
ment-  Charles  saw  Ellen's  blush,  but  this  proof  of  his 
power  only  stimulated  him  to  fresh  mischief.  He  stopped, 
and  taking  off  his  cap  drew  the  paper  from  the  inner  side 
of  the  crown  lining,  where  it  had  been  carefully  placed  to 
secure  it  from  the  observation  of  others.  Ellen,  in  the 
mean  time,  desirous  of  appearing  quite  unconcerned,  passed 
on  to  the  bridge,  and  was  already  upon  it  when  Charles  over 
took  her,  exclaiming,  "  Stop,  Ellen  :  what  are  you  running 
off  for  ?  stop  and  hear  it,"  which  only  made  Ellen  walk  the 
faster. 

"  Well,"  said  Charles,  "  you  have  no  idea  what  you  are 
losing,"  and  he  commenced  repeating  a  piece  of  doggerel 


ELLEN    LESLIE.  277 


which  had  been  manufactured  by  some  boy  he  had  known 
in  G 

"  The  gardens  were  full  of  bright  young  greens, 
The  patches  were  full  of  corn  and  beans." 

The  .artifice  was  successful.  Ellen,  relieved  from  her 
fears,  turned  round  with  a  smile  to  listen,  and  Charles, 
planting  his  stilts  in  such  a  manner  that  she  could  not  pass 
him  in  either  direction  without  approaching  nearer  to  the 
edge  of  the  narrow  bridge  than  she  would  like  to  do,  held  a 
paper  in  his  hand  high  above  her  reach,  and  read  from  it 
in  a  loud  voice,  and  with  much  flourish  and  parade — 

"To  MARY. 

"  Companion  of  my  early  years, 
Who  shared  my  joys,  who  soothed  my  tears." 

"  Let  me  go,  Charles,"  exclaimed  Ellen,  endeavoring  in 
vain  to  pass. 

"  Who  smiled  when  others'  looks  grew  dark  ?" 

"  Let  me  pass,"  almost  shrieked  Ellen,  mad  with  anger, 
and  losing  all  control  of  herself.  "  I  will  not  stay  to  be 
laughed  at,"  and  she  began  with  all  her  strength  to  push 
against  one  of  the  stilts. 

"  Oh  !  Ellen,  just  hear  this  line — '  Whose  patient  love — ' 
Stop,  stop,  Ellen,  you'll  throw  me  into  the  water,"  cried 
Charles  hurriedly,  as  he  felt  the  stilt  yielding  to  the  efforts 
of  Ellen,  to  whom  increasing  anger  lent  new  vigor.  Ellen 
pushed  on,  either  not  hearing  or  not  heeding.  Perhaps  she 
had  not  time  to  stay  her  hand,  for  it  was  but  a  moment  and 
the  stilt  had  passed  off  the  bridge.  Then  came  a  crashing 
sound,  as  the  hand-rail  yielded  beneath  the  weight  of 
Charles — then  a  sharp  cry  of  terror — a  sudden  plash — and 
Ellen  stood  alone  upon  the  bridge,  gazing  in  wild  dismay 
upon  the  waters  which  had  closed  silently  over  the  just 
now  gay  and  animated  boy. 

But  Ellen  had  not  been  the  only  spectator  of  this  scene. 
The  cry  of  Charles  had  been  echoed  from  the  bank.  There 
had  been  a  quick  rush  of  some  one  to  the  spot  where  Ellen 
stood.  She  was  conscious  of  a  plunge  into  the  water,  on 
which  her  eyes  were  riveted  with  a  stupifying,  bewildering 
horror.  How  long  it  was  she  knew  not — it  seemed  to  her 
24 


278  ELLEN    LESLIE. 


very,  very  long — ere  George,  for  it  was  he  who  made  the 
rush  and  the  plunge,  was  seen  swimming  to  the  shore, 
bearing  with  him  a  body,  which  appeared  to  have  no  power 
to  support  itself,  but  rested  a  lifeless  weight  on  his  support 
ing  arm.  Ellen  followed  his  every  movement  with  a  fixed, 
wild  stare — she  saw  him  land,  still  clasping  one  arm  around 
that  body — then  her  Aunt  Herbert  met  him,  and  helped 
him  to  carry  it.  Ellen  had  not  seen  her  before,  but  she 
now  remembered  that  echoing  cry,  and  knew  that  it  had 
been  hers.  In  all  this  time  Ellen  had  uttered  no  sound — 
made  no  movement ;  but  now  Mrs.  Herbert  called  her. 
Ellen  drew  near — near  enough  to  see  that  still,  pale  face, 
with  the  bright  eyes  closed  and  the  dripping  hair  hanging 
around  it — to  see  the  clinched  hand,  in  which  a  remnant 
yet  remained  of  the  worthless  paper  for  which  she  had  done 
this.  Ellen  covered  her  face  with  her  hands  and  shudder 
ed.  "  Ellen,"  said  Mrs.  Herbert,  and  her  voice  was  gen 
tle  as  ever,  though  melancholy  and  full  of  pity,  "  he  may 
live  yet ;  at  least  let  us  not  think  of  ourselves  till  we  have 
done  all  we  can  for  him.  Run,  Ellen,  to  Mr.  Smith's — 
send  him  for  the  doctor — quick,  quick,  Ellen — then  home — 
have  a  fire  made — blankets  got  ready — send  the  first  per 
son  you  meet  to  help  George  and  me  in  bearing — God 
grant,"  she  exclaimed,  suddenly  interrupting  herself  and 
letting  her  head  drop  for  a  moment  on  the  cold  face  which 
rested  on  her  bosom,  "  God  grant  we  may  not  be  bearing 
the  dead  !" 

Ellen  flew  rather  than  ran  to  Mr.  Smith's,  repeating  to 
herself  on  the  way  the  words  which  had  put  new  life  into 
her,  "  He  may  live — he  may  live."  On  the  way  she  met 
a  laborer,  whom  she  sent  forward  to  join  her  aunt  and 
George.  Her  message  to  Mr.  Smith  delivered,  she  waited 
not  to  answer  one  of  the  many  questions  urged  upon  her, 
she  did  not  seem  to  hear  them,  but  rushing  back,  passed 
the  sad,  slow  procession  about  half  way,  and  had  the  fire 
made,  the  bed  and  blankets  prepared,  before  they  arrived. 
Then  came  the  agony  for  her.  To  see  that  lifeless  body, 
as  she  was  called  upon  to  help  her  aunt — to  touch  those  cold 
limbs — to  watch  and  wait  in  vain  for  some  token  of  re 
turning  life — some  mark  that  she  was  not  henceforward  to 
regard  herself  as  a  murderer — this  was  agony  indeed. 

Under  Mrs.  Herbert's  direction  all  the  usual  restoratives 


ELLEN    LESLIE.  279 


for  persons  rescued  from  drowning  were  resorted  to,  and 
even  before  the  physician  who  had  been  sent  for  appeared, 
some  warmth  was  restored  to  the  limbs,  and  a  faint  tinge 
of  color  to  the  cheeks.  Oh  the  joy  of  that  first  hope  of 
success — the  yet  greater  joy,  when  those  lips,  which  they 
had  feared  were  sealed  forever,  unclosed,  and  a  feeble  voice 
proceeded  from  them  murmuring  "  Mother." 

"  He  is  safe  enough  now,"  said  the  physician.  Up  to 
this  moment  Ellen  had  not  made  a  sound  expressive  of  her 
feelings.  She  was  deadly  pale,  and  had  any  one  touched 
her,  they  would  have  found  that  she  was  scarcely  less  cold 
than  the  limbs  she  was  chafing ;  but  she  was  perfectly  still. 
Now,  however,  as  the  physician's  welcome  words  reached 
her  ear,  she  clasped  her  hands  together,  uttered  one  cry, 
and  would  have  fallen,  had  not  George  caught  her.  She 
was  taken  to  her  own  apartment,  and  the  doctor  having 
given  her  a  composing  draught,  ordered  her  to  be  put  im 
mediately  to  bed.  Notwithstanding  this,  fever  came  on, 
and  before  morning  Mrs.  Herbert  was  called  from  her  now 
quietly  sleeping  boy  to  the  delirious  Ellen.  Ellen's  con 
stant  cry  during  this  delirium  was,  "  I  have  killed  him — I 
have  killed  him,"  repeated  in  every  variety  of  tone,  now 
Low  and  plaintive,  now  wild  and  phrensied.  At  length,  to 
wards  morning,  she  fell  asleep. 

Mrs.  Herbert  having  seen  that  Charles  was  still  quiet, 
and  having  obtained  George's  promise  to  call  her  if  he 
awoke  and  inquired  for  her,  returned  to  Ellen's  room,  and 
lay  down  beside  her.  Ellen  continued  to  sleep  for  several 
hours,  at  first  uttering  low  moans,  and  muttering  to  herself, 
as  if  disturbed  by  unpleasant  dreams,  but  afterwards  be 
coming  quite  still,  and  sleeping  easily  and  naturally.  Mrs. 
Herbert  had  arisen,  and  was  seated  beside  her  when  she 
awoke,  which  she  did  with  a  start.  She  gazed  for  a  mo 
ment  at  her  aunt  with  some  wildness  in  her  countenance, 
but  as  Mrs.  Herbert  smiled  upon  her,  this  expression  passed 
away,  and  putting  out  her  hand  to  her,  she  said,  "Aunt 
Herbert,  I  have  had  such  a  dreadful  dream.  I  dreamed 
that  I  killed  Charles.  It  is  not  true,"  she  exclaimed  quick 
ly,  "  is  it  ?"  and  Ellen  raised  herself  on  her  elbow,  and 
looked  searchingly  into  her  Aunt's  face.  , 

"  No,  my  dear  Ellen — Charles  is  almost  well  again." 

"  Almost  well  again,"  she  repeated,  and  then  was  silent 


280  ELLEN    LESLIE. 


for  some  minutes,  during  which  she  lay  with  her  eyes 
closed.  At  length  tears  began  to  steal  down  her  cheeks, 
and  in  a  low,  tremulous  voice,  Ellen  said,  "  I  remember 
all  now,  Aunt  Herbert :  I  hoped  it  was  a  dream ;  but  I  re 
member  it  all  now,  and  I  know  that  if  you  and  George 
had  not  been  walking  that  way  just  then,  Charles  would 
have  been  drowned,  and  I  should  have  killed  him — have 
killed  your  child — my  own  dear  cousin  Charles.  Aunt 
Herbert,  do  you  not  wish  I  had  never  come  to  you  ?" 

"  So  far  from  it,  dear  Ellen,  that  the  more  proof  I  have 
of  the  strength  of  this  evil  in  your  nature,  the  more  re 
joiced  I  am  that  by  coming  to  me  you  have  given  me  the 
power  of  helping  you  to  subdue  it.  You  were  the  occasion 
of  very  bitter  suffering  to  me  yesterday  evening,  Ellen; 
and  yet,  now  that  God  in  His  mercy  has  restored  my  child, 
I  can  be  thankful  even  for  this  lesson  to  you,  if  it  influence 
you  as  I  hope  and  believe  it  will — if  you  learn  from  it  to 
dread  anger  as  the  beginning  of  murder.  Human  passion, 
Ellen,  is  like  a  raging  sea,  to  which  only  the  infinite  God 
can  say,  '  hitherto  shalt  thou  go,  and  no  farther,  and  here 
shall  thy  waves  be  stayed.'  " 

Ellen  remained  quite  still.  Tears  slowly  trickled  down 
her  cheeks ;  but  she  did  not,  as  was  usual  with  her  when 
agitated,  weep  violently.  She  seemed  softened,  subdued, 
humbled. 

After  some  minutes  had  passed  thus,  she  said,  "  Aunt 
Herbert,  it  seems  as  if  I  never  could  forget  yesterday  even 
ing  ;  and  as  if,  so  long  as  I  remembered  it,  I  never  could  be 
angry  again.  But  I  have  so  often  thought  I  was  cured, 
that  I  am  afraid  ;  do  pray  for  me,  Aunt  Herbert — pray  to 
God  that  I  may  never  forget." 

Mrs.  Herbert  was  accustomed  to  pray  with  her  children 
morning  and  evening,  and  she  now  knelt  by  Ellen's  bed, 
and  in  the  simple  language  of  a  child  revealing  its  feelings 
to  a  father,  poured  out  before  God  all  those  feelings  of 
which  Ellen's  heart  and  hers  were  full.  Fervently  did 
she  thank  Him  for  having  given  them  back,  as  if  from  the 
very  grave,  her  beloved  boy  ;  for  having  saved  the  dear 
child  beside  her  from  the  wretchedness  of  having  taken 
away  the  life  of  another;  and  earnestly,  solemnly  did  she 
pray  that  he  would  cast  out  from  her  that  evil  spirit,  which, 
if  it  were  indulged,  would  destroy  her  soul's  life — would 


ELLEN    LESLIE.  281 


take  from  her  that  eternal  life  which  the  blessed  Saviour 
had  come  into  the  world  to  reveal  as  the  portion  of  all  those 
who  loved  God  and  obeyed  His  commands. 

Mrs.  Herbert  did  not  suffer  either  Ellen  or  Charles  to 
rise  on  this  day.  When  they  met  the  next  morning,  noth 
ing  could  be  more  touching  than  the  humility  with  which 
Ellen  entreated  the  forgiveness  of  Charles,  and  the  gene 
rosity  with  which  he  declared  that  it  was  all  his  own  fault, 
and  that  he  never  would  tease  her  again. 


CHAPTER   XV. 

A    PLEASANT    CONCLUSION. 

I  FEAR  my  story  has  seemed  hitherto  sad  and  gloomy  to 
my  young  readers  ;  but  this  could  not  be  avoided,  for  over 
the  fairest  scenes  and  happiest  circumstances,  one  such  un 
controlled  temper  as  Ellen's  will  spread  sorrow  and  gloom. 
This  temper  was  no  longer  uncontrolled,  and  what  has 
since  passed  of  her  life  is  in  beautiful  and  delightful  con 
trast  with  its  earlier  portion.  I  say  her  temper  was  no 
longer  uncontrolled.  Her  nature  was  as  sensitive  as  ever — 
as  quick  to  feel  joy  or  pain,  pleasure  or  displeasure  ;  but 
Ellen  had  learned  to  rule  these  feelings,  and  not  to  be  ruled 
by  them — not  to  speak  or  act  as  they  dictated,  till  satisfied 
that  the  speech  or  the  action  was  right. 

I  cannot  deny  myself  the  pleasure  of  relating  one  or  two 
scenes,  which  may  illustrate  the  effect  of  this  change  upon 
the  happiness  of  Ellen's  future  life. 

The  bloom  of  spring  and  the  sultriness  of  summer  had 
given  place  to  the  varied  foliage  and  cool  bracing  breeze 
of  November.  It  was  a  bright  but  cool  day,  and  a  cheer 
ful  fire  blazed  in  the  open  fireplace  of  Mrs.  Herbert's  par 
lor.  Around  it  were  seated  all  her  own  family,  and  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Wallace,  who  were  spending  the  day  with  her. 
All  the  ladies  of  the  party  had  some  employment  for  the 
fingers.  Mrs.  Wallace  had  brought  her  knitting,  Mrs. 
Herbert  was  sewing  on  a  shirt,  and  on  Ellen's  lap  lay  a 
half-stitched  wristband,  which  had  just  been  put  down 
24* 


282  ELLEN    LESLIE. 


at  the  request  of  Charles,  that  she  might  sew  a  ball  for  him. 
Mr.  Wallace  loved  children,  and  was  very  observant  of 
them.  For  some  minutes  he  had  silently  watched  Ellen, 
interested  by  the  patience  with  which  she  had  listened  to 
the  manifold  directions  of  both  her  cousins,  and  once,  when 
her  work  seemed  nearly  completed,  had  taken  it  all  out,  to 
make  some  alterations  which  had  occurred  to  George  as 
desirable.  As  she  gave  Charles  the  ball  and  resumed  her 
wristband,  Mr.  Wallace  said,  "  Ellen,  do  you  remember  at 
what  time  you  came  here  ?" 

"Yes,  sir;  in  May  last."        • 

"  But  what  time  in  May  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know  what  day  of  the  month,  sir,"  said  Ellen, 
looking  up  with  some  surprise  at  her  friend. 

"  It  was  the  tenth  of  May,"  said  Mr.  Wallace  ;  "  and 
now  do  yoi^know  what  day  of  the  month  this  is  ?" 

"  The  tenth  of  November,  sir,  I  believe." 

"  You  are  right,  it  is  the  tenth,  and  your  six  months  of 
trial  are  finished.  You  can  now  fairly  judge  between  your 
home  here  and  in  H ;  and  as  I  shall  be  obliged  to  re 
turn  to  H in  a  week  or  two,  on  the  same  business 

which  caused  my  visit  there  in  the  spring,  if  you  desire  to 
return,  we  can  again  be  fellow-travellers.  What  say  you 
to  it,  Ellen  ?" 

Ellen  glanced  rapidly  at  her  Aunt  Herbert,  and  meeting 
her  eyes  fixed  on  her  earnestly,  tenderly,  turned  hers  as 
quickly  to  the  floor.  She  remained  silent,  but  her  cheek, 
now  red,  now  pale,  and  the  quivering  motion  of  her  lips, 
showed  her  agitation. 

"  Speak,  my  love,"  said  Mrs.  Herbert,  laying  her  hand 
on  Ellen's,  "  speak  just  as  you  feel.  You  have  a  perfect 
right  to  choose  your  home,  and  whatever  the  choice  may 
be,  none  can  complain." 

"  Oh,  Ellen,"  began  Charles,  who  did  not  altogether  ap 
prove  of  his  mother's  neutrality,  but  a  look  from  Mrs.  Her 
bert  silenced  him. 

Ellen  opened  her  lips  more  than  once  as  if  to  speak,  but 
seemed  unable  to  utter  a  word.  Suddenly  she  turned  again 
to  her  aunt,  and  passing  her  arms  around  her  neck,  hid  her 
face  upon  her  bosom.  Mrs.  Herbert  folded  her  arms  around 
her,  and  in  a  voice  which  in  spite  of  herself  faltered,  asked, 
"  Do  you  stay  with  us,  Ellen  ?" 


ELLEN    LESLIE.  283 


"Yes,"  said  Ellen,  looking  up  with  a  face  on  which 
there  were  both  smiles  and  tears. 

George  seized  her  hand  and  shook  it  warmly,  while 
Charles  shouted  for  joy  ;  and  in  the  exuberance  of  his  de 
light,  threw  his  ball  first  to  the  ceiling  and  then  across  the 
room,  making  it  pass  in  its  second  transit  so  near  Mrs. 
Wallace's  head  that  the  old  lady  started  and  dropped  her 
knitting. 

"  And  what  shall  I  tell  Mary,  Ellen  ?"  asked  -Mr.  Wal 
lace. 

"  That  she  must  come  to  me,  sir." 

"  I  shall  say  that  you  have  riot  forgotten  her." 

"  Forgotten  Mary  !"  exclaimed  Ellen ;  "  oh  no — tell  her 
I  never  thought  so  much  of  her  goodness  to  me  or  loved 
her  so  dearly  as  I  do  now.  Oh,  how  happy  I  shall  be  when 
she  comes! — but  I  cannot  leave  Aunt  Herbert,"  and  Ellen 
again  put  her  arm  around  her  aunt's  neck. 

"  You  are  my  daughter  now,  and  daughters,  you  know, 
do  not  leave  their  mothers  willingly  even  for  their  sisters," 
said  Mrs.  Herbert,  with  an  affectionate  smile. 

Ellen  returned  the  smile  as  she  answered,  "  Yes,  and 
that  is  not  all." 

"  What  more  is  there,  Ellen  ?"  asked  Mr.  Wallace. 

"  Why,  I  first  learned  to  be  happy  here,  sir ;  and  I  am 
afraid  if  I  went  away,  that — that — " 

"That  you  would  forget  the  lesson?"  inquired  Mr.  Wal 
lace. 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  There  is  no  danger  of  that,  I  think,  Ellen — it  is  a  les 
son  you  have  learned  very  thoroughly,"  said  Mrs.  Her 
bert  ;  "  and  it  is  one,"  she  added,  "  not  easily  forgotten." 

Something  more  than  a  year  had  now  elapsed  since  Mr. 
Villars'  departure  for  the  South,  and  still  his  return  was  de 
layed.  He  now  wrote  that  he  hoped  by  the  next  spring  to 
bring  the  business  which  had  taken  him  there  to  a  prosper 
ous  conclusion.  The  property  which  he  was  endeavoring 
to  recover  had  risen  in  value  of  late,  and  should  he  be  suc 
cessful,  Mary  and  Ellen  would  possess  fortune  sufficient 
for  all  their  reasonable  wants.  But  as  Mr.  Villars,  though 
hopeful,  was  not  certain  of  success,  he  was  still  unwilling 
that  Mary  should  leave  H.  for  her  Aunt  Herbert's,  thus 
relinquishing  the  employment  she  had  already  received 


282  ELLEN    LESLIE. 


at  the  request  of  Charles,  that  she  might  sew  a  ball  for  him. 
Mr.  Wallace  loved  children,  and  was  very  observant  of 
them.  For  some  minutes  he  had  silently  watched  Ellen, 
interested  by  the  patience  with  which  she  had  listened  to 
the  manifold  directions  of  both  her  cousins,  and  once,  when 
her  work  seemed  nearly  completed,  had  taken  it  all  out,  to 
make  some  alterations  which  had  occurred  to  George  as 
desirable.  As  she  gave  Charles  the  ball  and  resumed  her 
wristband,  Mr.  Wallace  said,  "  Ellen,  do  you  remember  at 
what  time  you  came  here  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir  ;  in  May  last."        • 

"  But  what  time  in  May  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know  what  day  of  the  month,  sir,"  said  Ellen, 
looking  up  with  some  surprise  at  her  friend. 

"  It  was  the  tenth  of  May,"  said  Mr.  Wallace  ;  "  and 
now  do  you  know  what  day  of  the  month  this  is  ?" 

"  The  tenth  of  November,  sir,  I  believe." 

"  You  are  right,  it  is  the  tenth,  and  your  six  months  of 
trial  are  finished.  You  can  now  fairly  judge  between  your 
home  here  and  in  H ;  and  as  I  shall  be  obliged  to  re 
turn  to  H in  a  week  or  two,  on  the  same  business 

which  caused  my  visit  there  in  the  spring,  if  you  desire  to 
return,  we  can  again  be  fellow-travellers.  What  say  you 
to  it,  Ellen  ?" 

Ellen  glanced  rapidly  at  her  Aunt  Herbert,  and  meeting 
her  eyes  fixed  on  her  earnestly,  tenderly,  turned  hers  as 
quickly  to  the  floor.  She  remained  silent,  but  her  cheek, 
now  red,  now  pale,  and  the  quivering  motion  of  her  lips, 
showed  her  agitation. 

"  Speak,  my  love,"  said  Mrs.  Herbert,  laying  her  hand 
on  Ellen's,  "  speak  just  as  you  feel.  You  have  a  perfect 
right  to  choose  your  home,  and  whatever  the  choice  may 
be,  none  can  complain." 

"  Oh,  Ellen,"  began  Charles,  who  did  not  altogether  ap 
prove  of  his  mother's  neutrality,  but  a  look  from  Mrs.  Her 
bert  silenced  him. 

Ellen  opened  her  lips  more  than  once  as  if  to  speak,  but 
seemed  unable  to  utter  a  word.  Suddenly  she  turned  again 
to  her  aunt,  and  passing  her  arms  around  her  neck,  hid  her 
face  upon  her  bosom.  Mrs.  Herbert  folded  her  arms  around 
her,  and  in  a  voice  which  in  spite  of  herself  faltered,  asked, 
"  Do  you  stay  with  us,  Ellen  ?" 


ELLEN    LESLIE.  283 


"Yes,"  said  Ellen,  looking  up  with  a  face  on  which 
there  were  both  smiles  and  tears. 

George  seized  her  hand  and  shook  it  warmly,  while 
Charles  shouted  for  joy ;  and  in  the  exuberance  of  his  de 
light,  threw  his  ball  first  to  the  ceiling  and  then  across  the 
room,  making  it  pass  in  its  second  transit  so  near  Mrs. 
Wallace's  head  that  the  old  lady  started  and  dropped  her 
knitting. 

"  And  what  shall  I  tell  Mary,  Ellen  ?"  asked -Mr.  Wal 
lace. 

"  That  she  must  come  to  me,  sir." 

"  I  shall  say  that  you  have  not  forgotten  her." 

"  Forgotten  Mary  !"  exclaimed  Ellen ;  "  oh  no — tell  her 
I  never  thought  so  much  of  her  goodness  to  me  or  loved 
her  so  dearly  as  I  do  now.  Oh,  how  happy  I  shall  be  when 
she  comes  ! — but  I  cannot  leave  Aunt  Herbert,"  and  Ellen 
again  put  her  arm  around  her  aunt's  neck. 

"  You  are  my  daughter  now,  and  daughters,  you  know, 
do  not  leave  their  mothers  willingly  even  for  their  sisters," 
said  Mrs.  Herbert,  with  an  affectionate  smile. 

Ellen  returned  the  smile  as  she  answered,  "  Yes,  and 
that  is  not  all." 

"  What  more  is  there,  Ellen  ?"  asked  Mr.  Wallace. 

"  Why,  I  first  learned  to  be  happy  here,  sir ;  and  I  am 
afraid  if  I  went  away,  that — that — " 

"That  you  would  forget  the  lesson?"  inquired  Mr.  Wal 
lace. 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  There  is  no  danger  of  that,  I  think,  Ellen — it  is  a  les 
son  you  have  learned  very  thoroughly,"  said  Mrs.  Her 
bert  ;  "  and  it  is  one,"  she  added,  "  not  easily  forgotten." 

Something  more  than  a  year  had  now  elapsed  since  Mr. 
Villars'  departure  for  the  South,  and  still  his  return  was  de 
layed.  He  now  wrote  that  he  hoped  by  the  next  spring  to 
bring  the  business  which  had  taken  him  there  to  a  prosper 
ous  conclusion.  The  property  which  he  was  endeavoring 
to  recover  had  risen  in  value  of  late,  and  should  he  be  suc 
cessful,  Mary  and  Ellen  would  possess  fortune  sufficient 
for  all  their  reasonable  wants.  But  as  Mr.  Villars,  though 
hopeful,  was  not  certain  of  success,  he  was  still  unwilling 
that  Mary  should  leave  H.  for  her  Aunt  Herbert's,  thus 
relinquishing  the  employment  she  had  already  received 


284  ELLEN    LESLIE. 


there,  while  for  the  same  reason  he  rejoiced  that  Ellen  was 
under  the  care  of  one  so  capable  of  giving  to  her  a  tho 
roughly  accomplished  education  as  was  Mrs.  Herbert. 

Winter  passed  away ;  spring  again  brought  flowers  and 
perfume  and  balmy  airs  to  all — and  to  Ellen  bright  hopes. 
Mr.  Villars  had  written  lately  more  sanguinely  than  ever 
of  his  success  ,•  at  any  rate,  when  he  wrote  last,  in  a  week 
the  lawsuit  on  which  all  depended  would  be  decided.  He 
would  then  return,  and  then  Mary  and  Ellen  would  meet. 
You  have  seen  that  during  the  year  of  their  separation  a 
great  change  had  taken  place  in  Ellen's  character,  and 
you  will  readily  believe  that  there  had  also  been  some  al 
teration  in  her  personal  appearance.  She  was  now  four 
teen,  and  she  had  grown  tall  and  womanly  in  figure,  while 
there  was  far  more  of  the  glad-heartedness  of  early  child 
hood  shining  in  her  face,  than  could  have  been  seen  there 
a  year  before.  Her  heavy  indolent  movements,  too,  were 
replaced  by  a  springy,  elastic  step.  In  a  word,  Ellen  was 
happy,  and  that  happiness  showed  itself  in  words,  and  looks, 
and  tones.  No  sullen  resentment  clouded  her  brow,  no 
angry  passion  made  her  voice  harsh,  no  bitter  self-reproach 
for  unjust  thoughts  and  unkind  speeches  lay  heavy  upon 
her  heart ;  all  looked  kindly  on  her,  and  Ellen  no  longer 
feared  that  she  was  not  loved. 

It  was  about  three  weeks  after  the  reception  of  that  let 
ter  from  Mr.  Villars  to  which  we  have  alluded,  that  re 
turning  from  an  afternoon's  ramble  with  her  cousin,  Ellen, 
on  entering  the  piazza,  saw  through  the  open  parlor  win 
dow  a  gentleman's  head.  Her  heart  beat  quickly — it 
might  be  her  Uncle  Villars ;  she  approached  nearer  the 
window,  and  looked  anxiously  in — there  was  a  lady,  but  too 
tall  for  Mary.  Ellen  forgot  that  Mary  was  seventeen,  and 
had  had  a  year  in  which  to  grow,  since  she  saw  her.  The 
lady  turned  her  head — the  next  moment  the  sisters  were  in 
each  other's  arms.  "  My  own  dear  Mary  !"  "  My  dar 
ling  Ellen  !"  were  their  only  words — their  feelings,  who 
shall  describe  ? 

"  And,  Uncle  Villars,  you  can  live  in  your  own  house 
again,  now,  and  have  poor  Mrs.  Merrill  back — can  you 
not  ?"  asked  Ellen,  after  Mr.  Villars  had  announced  that 
he  had  gained  the  object  of  his  southern  journey. 

"  Yes,  Ellen,  for  it  is  no  longer  necessary  for  me  to  be 


ELLEN    LESLIE.  285 


so  careful  of  my  expenditures,  since  you  and  Mary  no 
longer  want  any  assistance  from  me .  The  house  has  been 
unoccupied  for  some  months,  and  Mrs.  Merrill  is  already 
there  getting  every  thing  in  readiness  for  us  against  we 
return." 

Ellen  seemed  lost  in  thought  for  a  moment,  then  looking 
up  with  a  merry  smile,  she  said,  "  Uncle  Villars,  I  have  a 
puzzle  that  is  more  difficult  than  the  fox  and  the  goose, 
and  nobody  can  help  me  with  it  but  you  and  Aunt  Her 
bert." 

"  Well,  what  is  it,  Ellen  ?" 

"  Why,  how  am  I  to  stay  with  Aunt  Herbert  and  George 
and  Charles,  and  yet  go  with  you  and  Mary  ? — One  thing  is 
certain,  I  cannot  part  with  any  of  you." 

"I  have  thougnt  of  this  myself,  Ellen,  and  I  have  a  plan 
for  the  accomplishment  of  your  wishes,  if  you  can  win 
your  Aunt  Herbert's  consent  to  it." 

"What  is  it?"  exclaimed  Ellen,  eagerly. 

"  That  she  should  remove  to  H.,  which  was  her  own 
early  home,  and  which  offers  much  greater  advantages  for 
the  education  of  her  sons  and  their  entrance  into  life,  than 
their  present  situation." 

"  That  would  be  delightful,"  said  Ellen. 

The  day  after  this  conversation,  Mrs.  Herbert  was  walk 
ing  with  Mr.  Villars  over  to  the  Dairy  Farm,  as  the  resi 
dence  of  Farmer  Smith  was  called.  In  passing  the  bridge 
she  related  to  him  the  circumstances  attending  the  fall  and 
rescue  of  Charles — the  great  distress  of  Ellen,  and  the  un 
remitting  and  successful  efforts  she  had  since  made  to  over 
come  that  evil  nature  which  had  so  nearly  produced  such 
fatal  consequences. 

"  Since  that  time,"  continued  Mrs.  Herbert,  "  though  I 
have  seen  Ellen's  temper  tried,  and  her  anger  excited,  I 
have  only  known  that  it  was  so  by  the  sudden  sparkle  of 
the  eye,  or  the  quick  flush  of  the  cheek.  She  knows  the 
danger  of  yielding  for  a  moment,  and  you  can  see  on  such 
occasions  that  her  whole  nature  is  aroused  to  resist  the 
evil,  to  subdue  the  passion.  Of  late  these  conflicts  with 
herself  are  very  rare,  for  she  grows  every  day  more  gen 
tle  and  forbearing.  I  cannot  express  to  you,  Mr.  Villars, 
how  dear  she  has  become  to  me.  To  her  cousins  she  is  a 
patient,  affectionate  sister,  to  me  a  tender  and  devoted 


286  ELLEN    LESLIE. 


daughter ;  our  home  will  long  be  darkened  by  her  depart 
ure.  How  can  I  let  her  go  from  us — yet  how  can  I  ask 
you  and  her  sister  to  give  her  up !" 

Mrs.  Herbert  spoke  with  deep  emotion,  and  Mr.  Villars 
felt  that  there  could  not  be  a  more  fortunate  moment  for 
his  proposal.  When  Mrs.  Herbert  first  heard  it,  she  shook 
her  head,  and  looking  around  her  said,  "  I  cannot  part  with 
this  place,  Mr.  Villars,  it  has  too  many  endearing  associa 
tions." 

"  If  by  parting  with  it  you  mean  selling  it,  there  is  no 
necessity  for  your  doing  so  ;  let  Mr.  Smith,  whom  you  know 
to  be  an  honest  man,  continue  to  farm  it  as  he  now  does : 
you  can  even  spend  part  or  the  whole  of  every  summer 
here,  for  travelling  costs  little  now.  The  board  which,  as 
the  guardian  of  Mary  and  Ellen,  I  should  feel  bound  to  pay 
you,  would  meet  any  difference  in  the  expense  of  your 

establishment  here  and  in  H ;  and  the  advantages  which 

your  care  would  ensure  to  them,  I  would  endeavor  to  repay 
to  your  boys  in  the  direction  of  their  education  and  the  ad 
vancement  of  their  objects  in  life." 

And  Mrs.  Herbert  consented,  and  Ellen's  puzzle  was 
solved. 

It  was  decided  that  Mrs.  Herbert  should  remove  in  the 
following  October.  In  the  mean  time  Mary  and  Ellen 
would  both  remain  with  her,  while  Mr.  Villars  would  re 
turn  to  H ,  to  make  the  necessary  arrangements  for 

her  reception  there.  Mrs.  Merrill  had  been  delighted  at 
being  recalled  as  Mr.  Villars'  housekeeper ;  her  happiness 
was  complete  when  she  learned  that  he  was  again  to  live 
alone.  Mr.  Villars  took  care,  however,  that  Mrs.  Herbert's 
house  should  be  so  near  his  own  that  no  weather  should 
prevent  daily  intercourse  between  her  family  and  himself. 

In  this  house,  when   I  next  visited  H ,  I   found  my 

young  friends  established. 

Ellen  I  soon  discovered  was  as  great  a  favorite  with  her 
young  companions,  and  as  welcome  a  guest  at  their  gather 
ings,  as  her  sister  Mary.  Calling  at  Mrs.  Herbert's  one 
morning,  I  found  Ellen  and  Mary  dressed  for  a  walk,  which 
I  insisted  they  should  not  give  up  on  account  of  my  visit ; 
so  after  chatting  a  while  with  me,  they  went  out.  After 
they  reached  the  door  Ellen  turned  around,  saying  earnest 
ly,  "  Remember,  Uncle  Villars." 


ELLEN    LESLIE.  287 


"  Yes,  gipsy,"  said  Mr.  Villars  playfully  ;  "  and  do  you 
remember  that  I  mean  to  say  no  to  your  very  next  request, 
just  to  prove  that  I  have  a  will  of  my  own." 

Ellen  did  not  seem  much  disturbed  by  this  threat,  for  she 
laughed  gayly  as  she  closed  the  door. 

"  I  suspect,  sir,"  said  I,  "that  it  is  difficult  to  tell  which 
has  most  influence  now,  the  sun  or  the  wind,"  alluding  to 
the  names  which  he  had  formerly  given  the  sisters. 

"  No— no,"  replied  he,  "  the  truth  is,  they  are  both  suns 
now,  and  the  consequence  is,  that  they  make  me  do  just 
what  they  please." 


THE   END. 


I 


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23^9  Mclntosh  - 


M21a  Aunt  Kitty's 
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M21a 


